


The Commander

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 00:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 82,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3875893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows she is different because the others her age have been sorted into groups (warriors, healers, and farmers), but she is told to remain with her family. “There is time for you yet, child,” a woman with striking grey eyes tells her, a sad, knowing smile on her face.  She presses a hand to her shoulder, something like regret flashing over her face. “Do not be in a hurry to grow up.” </p><p>(Or, Lexa as she grows into the Commander).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Six-Eight

**Author's Note:**

> In celebration of finals being over, I started a Lexa story that’s way too long and way too angsty (99.9% of which will be AU once we get to see more Grounder culture on the show). Anyway, I’m preemptively sorry.

**Six**

 She knows she is different because the others her age have been sorted into groups (warriors, healers, and farmers), but she is told to remain with her family.

“There is time for you yet, child,” a woman with striking grey eyes tells her, a sad, knowing smile on her face.  She presses a hand to her shoulder, something like regret flashing over her face. “Do not be in a hurry to grow up.”

Later, while she watches her older brother chop wood—he is to be a warrior, and she looks up to him, admires and _envies_ him—she is told that the woman is the _Commander_ , that she had not planned on visiting their village, but her spirit had sent her here. At this point, her brother gives her a knowing look, a sad, small smile, and she knows that the Commander’s spirit telling her to come to their village is _not_ a good thing.

But her Commander ordered her not to be in a hurry to grow up, so Lexa ignores her brother’s knowing look and sad, small smile (an expression eerily similar to the one the Commander herself gave Lexa), and she rushes off to the field to collect the flowers she knows her mother loves.

(The Commander leaves their village the very next day, but not before telling Lexa that they would see each other again soon. Lexa forgets this almost as soon as the last of the Commander’s guards are out of sight).

 

**Seven**

 The little girl is not actually her little sister, but she does not mind the lie her parents tell her. She knows that the girl—not even two—has lost her parents to the _Maunon_ , and Lexa is fiercely proud that her parents would take the child in (just one child is an honor, and her parents now have three to care for). She is also a little glad, because more and more often, large men with long beards and lean women with braids and tattoos that mark them as important warriors arrive in their village, pulling her away from her family to train.

Lexa is glad her parents have the little girl especially because, more and more, she gets the feeling that she will not be able to stay much longer.

The first time she gets this feeling is when one of the warriors training her shakes her head in disappointment when Lexa is unable to hold her stance correctly (the sword is too heavy, she wants to complain, but that will be weakness, and she has been warned about weakness).

“You are flimsy _, Leksa_ ,” the young woman says, not unkindly, as she fixes Lexa’s stance. It takes a second for Lexa to translate the woman’s words (they all speak English with her, tutting impatiently when it takes her too long to catch on to what they mean), and she breathes out deeply through her nose.

“Why must I learn this, Anya? My brother is the warrior.” She does not speak in English, but in _Trigedasleng_ , and she ignores the Anya’s disapproving look. “I want to be a farmer, like my parents.” Farming is important to her people; it is far more honorable, her father likes to say, to grow life and provide for others than it is to take life. Lexa is inclined to agree. Anya however, shakes her head.

“You do not get a choice, Lexa,” she says, once again correcting Lexa’s stance. “You were born for the position you must fill—it is my job to ensure you are ready for it.” It is Lexa’s turn to tut impatiently, shaking her head in absolute frustration. She wants to complain in her native tongue, but a single look from her mentor quells the desire quickly. Instead, Lexa lets the sword drop to the ground, and she feels her shoulders droop as she looks up at the woman with the blonde hair and hard gaze (a gaze she usually cowers under, but this time, she merely meets it head-on, refusing to look away).

“Tell me then. Tell me what I was born for.” Anya smiles—a rare sight, Lexa thinks she has only witnessed it twice—and kneels down in front of Lexa so that they are eye-level.

“You were born to be a warrior. You were born _for_ your people.”

“I do not know what that _means_ ,” Lexa says, and Anya’s smile slips away. She stands in one fluid motion and looks down at Lexa, who finally turns away, no longer able to keep up the eye contact (she thinks she is brave, but she _knows_ she is not stupid).

“It means your stance is flimsy and you must fix it. Now, pick up your blade.” And no matter how much Lexa prods over the next few days of training, Anya never mentions what Lexa was born for.

The second time she feels that her time with her family is quickly coming to an end is when one of the large, bearded men who teach her about subjects she cares nothing for—things like strategy, diplomacy, the politics of the different Clans, and even writing—tells her she will be great one day.

“What does that mean, Gustus?” she asks him shrewdly, more confident in her English after a few months of speaking nothing else. “Why will _I_ be great?” Gustus huffs gruffly, but Lexa can tell he is hiding a smile.

“You are smart, Lexa. And you are strong. This is a rare combination.”

“Our healer says that it is important to be strong, smart, _and_ good, and that our warriors have forgotten that.” Gustus does not look happy about her comment, and he shakes his head.

“Remember, _Leksa_ ,” he says, slipping into _Trigedasleng_ pointedly, clearly wanting to ensure she does not misunderstand what he wants to say. “Sometimes, being good is not an option. Sometimes, to make the smart and strong choice, you must sacrifice what is good.”

“I do not think I could do that,” Lexa says softly, worried about disappointing this warrior who laughs at her jokes (unlike Anya) and who brings dried fruit to help particularly boring lessons pass by more quickly. Gustus places a gentle hand on top of her head as he lets out a sigh.

“You will be great one day, Lexa,” he repeats. “And you will always be good.”

The third time she feels she cannot stay for much longer—or more accurately, she discovers that she _knows_ she must leave soon—is when she’s with her brother.

They do not play together anymore, that had ceased when he turned twelve a summer ago and became a second. Now, they spend time together when they accompany the other warriors on hunts, when there is a need for chopped wood and she and Rox are assigned the task, or at nights, when she returns home—exhausted from her day with Anya, who has stayed longer than normal in their village—and he is still awake so that he can ensure she eats something before falling asleep.

They do not play anymore, but Lexa has never felt closer to him: he is to be a warrior, and she…well, she thinks she is too.

“Do you know who Anya is, Lexa?” he asks her in stiff English one night, as he pushes a plate of food towards her. “Or Gustus? Do you know who they are?” Lexa frowns at the question and also at the tone her brother is using—she thinks he sounds…angry.

“They are warriors.”

“Yes, but do you know who assigned them to train you? Or why?”

“No. I have asked, but they refuse to tell me.” His eyes flash and he shakes his head.

“Can’t you put it all together?” he demands. “Don’t they teach you about the Commander?” She shakes her head in confusion.

“Yes, but…” she trails off, not understanding what he is trying to tell her. “Why are they here, Rox? You must know.” For a second, the old Rox, the one who looked at her with pity, with a sad smile, shines through. But old Rox is gone quickly, and in his place is the angry warrior she does not recognize.

“Do you know what they are preparing you for?” he asks in a heated whisper, and Lexa is shocked to see tears form in his eyes—this is a weakness Gustus taught her to never have, that Anya said made her look small and stupid. But on Rox, it is just heartbreaking, and she does not know why. “They’re preparing you to die, Lexa,” he says, switching to _Trigedasleng_ , the tears spilling over and rolling down his cheeks, much to Lexa’s astonishment. She wonders if his anger was ever for her. “And you’re going along with it, willingly.”

“No,” Lexa says (not switching to her native tongue like she so desires, hating the look in her brother’s eyes as she speaks), shaking her head. “I said I did not want this. But I have no choice.” Rox reaches out and he grabs her hands, squeezing them tightly.

“Please, Lexa,” he says, and though Lexa does not know what he is begging for, she nods curtly, her face blank (the way Anya taught her). She watches as her brother’s face crumples briefly before he too is able to school his features as _he_ was taught. “We don’t want to watch this happen to you, Lexa,” he says, not explaining what ‘this’ is, making Lexa frown. “When you leave, make sure you never come back.” She nods again, and he leaves her, and it is only then that she lets her tears fall.

Lexa is glad when her parents take in the little girl. Because when she leaves—and she _will_ leave—it will be good that they will have one daughter left, one who will be a farmer like them, one who will stay. When she leaves—and more and more she thinks that is just a nicer way of saying ‘when she dies’—her brother will still have a little sister to look after and love.

When she leaves, her family will not be alone.

* * *

 After training one afternoon, only weeks after her brother’s tearful plea, Anya tells Lexa that she will be staying in their village permanently. “You will be my second,” she says, her eyebrows rising, as if she is daring Lexa to argue.

“I am not old enough. We become seconds at the age of twelve,” Lexa mutters, the closest she can get to resistance without actively standing up to the warrior. This causes Anya to laugh.

“You are an exception, Lexa. This is a good thing—you will be a warrior.” Lexa remembers what her brother said to her, remembers the tears in his eyes and her own desires to be a farmer like her parents, but she pushes it all away, blinking back tears that threaten to form in her eyes. She does not get a choice; she was born to fill a position; she will be great one day.

“I am honored to be your second, Anya,” she murmurs, looking down. She misses the flash of sorrow that passes over Anya’s face.

**Eight**

 Her mother is the only one she speaks _Trigedasleng_ with. Her brother is often not at home, his duties as a second taking him further and further away, and her little sister barely speaks at all. Anya and Gustus speak exclusively in English—“I know you do not like it, but I also do not care,” Anya likes to tell her—and she has no friends to speak of. It leaves her parents, and though she loves her father, the disappointment and sadness she sees in his eyes makes it difficult to speak with him at all. So it leaves her mother as the sole person she converses with besides Gustus and Anya, and the only person she speaks with in her native tongue.

This does not seem to bother her mother at all.

“Lexa, help me with your sister,” her mother calls, practically shoving the child into Lexa’s arms.

“Would you like to know what I learned today with Gustus?” Lexa asks over her little sister’s head (the child will not be named until she gets through her fourth year, a tradition, her father once explained, that was started because children often did not survive to see it, and this practice made it easier on the parents). Her mother pauses whatever she is doing—since her lessons began, Lexa spends little to no time helping her parents, and knows little of what they do anymore—and nods with a smile.

“Of course, tell me everything.” And so Lexa does.

Other times, Lexa does not wish to speak with her mother, but cry on her shoulder, and her mother seems to know which it is intuitively. She notices Lexa rush by to crouch by a tree with her head between her knees, and the next thing Lexa knows, she is being pulled into an embrace.

“It is all right, child,” her mother says soothingly, her grip tightening as they sway gently in place. “It will be all right.” And usually, Lexa believes her mother.

When her mother dies that summer, Lexa stops believing her.

A sickness goes around, an awful one that causes its victims to cough up blood, to be wracked with fever and hallucinations, to suffer through blinding headaches, and Lexa is somewhat unsurprised her mother becomes ill. Her mother is _good_ , and she spends her days caring for the ill, caring for those even their healers had given up on despite all their protests.

“We have a duty to each other,” she tells Lexa blearily the morning before she falls ill. “Saving lives is much more important than taking them, Lexa.” She smiles and tucks a stray strand of Lexa’s hair behind her ear, her eyes—which Lexa has inherited, the only thing she has inherited—shining. “Do not forget that.” Lexa promises she will not, as long as her mother promises to be all right.  

The next day, she wakes up with a fever, and two days after that, she is gone, and Lexa wonders when her mother became a liar.

“It is good to mourn the ones we love,” her father tells her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, his eyes shining with tears that are spilling into his beard. He is not a warrior, but he is just as strong, just as large, as any of them, and the sight of his tears makes Lexa’s stomach turn.

“I do mourn,” she answers in English, knowing he knows very little. The only one she was willing to speak _Trigedasleng_ to is now dead and gone, so the language, too, is dead and gone. Lexa bites her lip hard, drawing blood, and pushes the thoughts of her mother away, trying to quell the crushing feeling in her chest, but she thinks her heart will shatter from the force of it.

Her father stares at her for another moment before nodding and walking away from the burning pyre, clearly unwilling to watch as what remained of his wife turns to ash. But Lexa remains, stock still, her back straight as if she is in battle.

“ _Yu gonplei ste odon, nomon,_ ” she whispers, but like she expects, there is no soothing response. _It is not all right_ , she wants to scream, _it is not all right and it will never be all right._ But later, when Anya asks her if she cried for her mother, Lexa does not respond, and Anya nods approvingly.

“The pain will pass, Lexa, I promise.” Lexa nods, but she does not believe her.

* * *

 She sees her brother again when they have their little sister’s naming ceremony.

It is never a big affair, usually reserved for immediate family and close friends, but her father—who has spiraled since his wife’s death—has turned it into somewhat of a farce. Anya sees this too, and she takes over the celebration.

Each family member gives one thing to a child the spring of their fourth year. Rox gives the little girl a blessing, and her father gives her a name (Tris, he says with tears in his eyes, and Lexa pretends not to feel the lurch in her stomach at her mother’s name, not to feel a pang in her chest). Instead, she steps forward and gives Tris two things: a prayer and a promise. She prays that the little girl will become just as soft, just as kind, just as wise as their mother, and she promises that she will always be there for her. Lexa notices that her brother and father seem pleased by her gifts, but Anya looks furious. It takes the older woman only seconds to grab her by the arm and drag her out of her home.

“You cannot make promises like that,” Anya says, her eyes narrowing. “It is selfish and foolish to believe you can be there for anyone.”

“If I am to be a warrior, then why not promise to be there for her? I want to be able to protect her.” Anya growls.

“She will not know you, Lexa. She will _never_ know you. This village,” Anya gestures all around her, “is not where you belong. You will leave, soon, and you will never look back.”

“ _Why_?” Lexa demands, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Because you love this village. You love the people here,” Anya says softly. She steps forward and she holds Lexa by the shoulders, something in her features hardening—almost as if she is steeling herself to continue to speak. “And your love will be its downfall. So learn to forget this place and the people here. If you want to protect her, harden your heart, Lexa.”

“ _Why_? Please, Anya, just tell me. Why do I matter?” She cannot help the tears that fill her eyes, and Anya falls to her knees, her eyes sad.

“Because you will be _heda_ , Lexa. The Spirit has chosen you, and when our Commander dies, you must take her place.” Lexa shakes her head violently, suddenly unable to breathe.

“No. I am not strong enough. The Spirit chose wrong.” Anya lets out a gruff laugh and she pulls Lexa into a hug—the first one she has ever given.

“You are _strong_ , Lexa. And you will be a great Commander.” Lexa is unable to stop the flow of tears, but Anya says nothing; she merely holds onto Lexa until her sobs have subsided and her cheeks are dry. “You will be great one day, of that I have no doubt.”

And somehow, Lexa believes her.

* * *

 She and Anya leave for a place called Polis two weeks later.

Her farewells are brief and tearless. Her father hugs her, whispers in her ear to stay strong, be smart, and be good (and her heart clenches at the last one, because Gustus has already warned her that she will not be good). Rox does not hug her, but the look in his eyes makes Lexa want to cry, to scream, to beg to stay home.

“Remember your promise to me, Lexa,” he says with his sad, small smile (and if Lexa understands now why he asked her to never return, if she realizes the request was more for her than for him, she does not dwell on it). “Remember that you will always be my little sister.” Lexa nods once, shakily and tentative, before she moves to kiss Tris’s forehead, the little four year old staring up at her in confusion.

And when Anya grabs her by the shoulder and gently leads her away, Lexa does not protest, and she does not look back. 

* * *

 They take her to the Commander first.

Lexa remembers nothing but the woman’s striking grey eyes, and the image she has conjured for herself is nothing close to reality.

The Commander is _young_ , possibly only a few years older than Anya. Her long brown hair is pulled back in complicated braids, her clothes look stiff and uncomfortable, and the guard that rests on her shoulder seems heavy and cumbersome.

“There you are!” she says, a tiny smile appearing on her face when she notices Lexa and Anya. She moves away from the large table she was hovering over—looking like she intended to burn holes through it with just her eyes—and motions for Lexa to step further into her chambers. “ _Leksa kom Trikru_ , you are a very special girl.” Lexa notices that the Commander’s expression does not match her tone, and she is reminded again of what her brother had said: _They’re preparing you to die_. So she does not speak. Somehow, this seems to be the right answer, because the Commander laughs. “You are a smart girl, Lexa. I can see why the Spirit would choose you.”

“It chose wrong, _heda_ ,” Lexa suddenly says, horrified at her own outburst. But though Anya is pursing her lips disapprovingly, the Commander nods thoughtfully.

“It is not a weakness to be afraid, Lexa,” she says kindly. “But you must never let your fear govern your actions.” Lexa wants to protest, and the Commander must sense this, because she holds up a hand. “I do not know why you were chosen. There has never been a Commander from a small village like yours.” She places a hand on Lexa’s shoulder, and the action—which is so comforting when it is Anya’s hand—makes her want to shiver. “But the Spirit did not choose wrong. Of that, I am quite sure.”

They are dismissed soon after that, Lexa is given a room in the Commander’s large home, and she is told she has two days to rest—to explore—before the real work begins.

* * *

 It takes her only a single morning to know Polis like the back of her hand.

It is a large, expansive city, quite different from the village she grew up in, with street vendors yelling from the streets, homes that were more than sheets of metal but actual wood, and a large area in which you could sit at tables and buy food (so unlike the way everyone in her village had to hunt and grow food for their meals).

In Polis, just like in her village, Lexa is immediately seen as different, as special. She thinks it is the clothes—everyone, from the vendors to the warriors, wears shades of blue, black, and grey. Lexa however, was given a deep red sash and told to wrap it around her waist.

“It is a mark of who you are, Lexa,” Anya explains as she teaches her how to tie it properly. “When you become Commander, it will be on your shoulder guard and flow behind you.”

“What does it mean? Why is it red?” Anya rolls her eyes at the question, but answers anyway.

“Blood, my little _heda-_ to-be. It symbolizes blood.” Lexa swallows, but is unsure how to respond, so she lets it go.

It is not, however, merely the clothes that mark her. Anya’s constant presence, the way she is never asked to pay for anything, the way the children stop when they notice her walking in the street and incline their heads stiffly, all of these mark her as different, as _other_ , and she has never felt more alone. But when she asks Anya if they are friends, the older woman seems a little frustrated.

“You have no time for friends, Lexa,” she says, but Lexa goes to bed with a smile because Anya did not say no (which is as close to a yes as she thinks she will ever get from her mentor).

Training too, changes. It is no longer just lessons with Gustus and fighting with Anya. She is thrown against opponents older and stronger than herself, and she is forced to take ‘exams,’ to prove she is learning all that she is taught. The exams terrify her more than the bigger and stronger opponents who make her bleed and attempt to break her bones.

“A new threat emerges from the east, Lexa. What do you do?” Gustus asks her, and Lexa stares down at the map he has marked up for her. She swallows.

“I send warriors to get rid of the threat before refocusing my attention on the food shortage.” Gustus shakes his head wearily.

“And you have just killed them all,” he says, expressing the loss by furiously scratching out the warriors on the map. “What was your mistake?” Lexa clenches her fists.

“I _have_ to send the warriors to take care of the threat. Otherwise the people in that village would die.”

“Yes, but now there are no extra hands to help with the food shortage, and your people have all died from starvation,” Gustus says harshly, causing Lexa to wince. “Sometimes, to win a war, you must concede a battle. You must be able to give up that village in order to save the rest of your people.” Lexa swallows, her fingers grazing over the imaginary village drawn on the map.

“It is _wrong_ , Gustus,” she says in a whisper, and he gives her an unreadable look.

“It is also your only choice. You cannot save us all, Lexa, so you must be ruthless and help as many as you can survive.” He pauses and looks at her carefully. “Do you understand?” Lexa blinks back tears and nods.

“Yes, I do.”

* * *

 On hunts, she has always been an observer, but three weeks after arriving in Polis, the Commander requests that Lexa accompany her on a hunt, to get her first kill.

At first, Lexa is excited. She has been practicing every day—her footwork is sure and silent, her movements measured. She is ready to get her first kill—she is ready to prove that he Spirit did not choose wrong (because, intuitively, she knows this is a test, that the Commander wants to see what she is capable of).

So when she spots the deer, grazing peacefully about fifty paces away, Lexa nearly grins. She nocks an arrow and aims, trying to ignore the feeling of the Commander’s gaze on her back. Lexa sighs softly, pulls back on the bowstring, and is about to release it when something stays her hand.

 _Saving lives is much more important than taking them, Lexa_.

 _Shof op_ , Lexa thinks furiously. _This is_ not _the same_.

 _Do not forget that_ , her mother tells her, and Lexa feels the bow and arrow slip out of her hands. It is not the same, she thinks to herself, but somehow, it is.

Lexa is drawn out of her thoughts when the Commander claps her on the shoulder, something shining in her eyes. “Sometimes,” the woman says loudly so that the others can hear, making Lexa’s cheeks burn with embarrassment because everyone will be privy to her failure, “the mark of true strength comes not from being able to take a life, but knowing when not to.” Lexa’s head snaps up, and the Commander points towards the deer, where two fawns have joined it. “Had you killed her, her children would have starved,” she says softly, a smile on her face. “You have good instincts, Lexa, do not doubt them.” Lexa nods, flushing with pride, and feeling a surge of affection for the Commander who seems to have so much faith in her.

“Yes, _heda_ ,” she says, and the Commander’s smile widens.

“Now, we still have hunting to do. Pick up your bow, Lexa. We must get you your first kill.”

(They do—it’s a wild hog, and Lexa’s aim proves to be impeccable. The Commander ruffles Lexa’s hair with a grin, and Anya stands back, the grin on her face her version of beaming with pride, and Lexa thinks this is the best day she’s ever had).

* * *

 “You are entering your ninth year soon,” Anya says one night as she teaches Lexa how to pull her hair back in the same intricate braids as the Commander (yet another sign of how she is different, of who she is to her people). “Is there anything you wish for?” Lexa blinks, surprised by the softness of Anya’s tone, and she somehow knows that she can be honest—that whatever admission she makes will not be taken as weakness or reported to the Commander.

“There is nothing I want, Anya,” she says, lying. Because she wants to see Rox and Tris, wants to tell her father about the wild hog she killed, wants to hug her mother again, wants to be able to tell someone about all the things she wants but knows she is not supposed to desire. Because she knows, no matter Anya’s tone, she cannot admit her weaknesses. Not to anyone.

This, the Commander has told her in confidence, is one of the true challenges of being a leader—your desires are no longer of importance and they will _always_ be used against you.

She knows she has passed this test—because of course it is a test, _everything_ is a test—when Anya chuckles and shoves her head gently forward. “You are a liar, Lexa,” she says with another laugh, before she grows serious. “That is good.”

She is unable to sleep that night, her thoughts only on liars and how they’re made (because Lexa turned her good mother into a liar, and now, Anya and the Commander have turned Lexa into one).


	2. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Lexa’s horrified look, the Commander lets out a booming laugh, and she lets go of her hand to ruffle her hair (which is not in the braids Anya taught her—the braids that mark her as different—because Lexa has learned there is great satisfaction in little rebellions). “Do not worry, child,” the Commander says, coming to a stop, and kneeling down so that they are eye-level. “I will not leave you alone for some time yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter, initially, was supposed to span three years. But I realized that would make updates super slow, so I think I may stick to one year per chapter for now. Anyway, let me know what you think!

**Nine**

 

Some days, Anya is called away on errands for the Commander. And on those days, without her mentor hanging over her shoulder and watching her every move, Lexa removes the red sash that marks her as different and dons clothing she stole from one of the Commander’s young aides. Then, before the sun has even risen, Lexa slips past the guards who man the gates to Polis, and heads to the edge of the woods surrounding the city, where there is a small pond.

Usually, the entire trip only takes about an hour, but when the weather was cooler, it felt like only minutes. Now, shortly after the sun has risen, its rays beat unforgivingly on her back, and she is sweating profusely by the time she makes it to the pond (after what feels like _hours_ ). Lexa grins as she tucks her sweaty hair behind her ears, and without bothering to undress, jumps into the water.

It is not deep at all—only up to her shoulders—but Lexa has to hold back giggles as she half swims from one end to the other, reveling in the feeling of the water. Anya never lets her do anything remotely fun anymore, claiming that her duties were to her people. “You are to be the _heda_ , Lexa,” she keeps saying, “You cannot be a child anymore.” At first, Lexa would counter with the Commander’s own words, stiffly informing her mentor that she was to _not_ grow up quickly. But Gustus overheard her comment one afternoon and sat her down, his eyes sad but unwavering from hers.

“ _Heda_ gave you three years. She gave you a gift, Lexa. Now it is time for you to thank her for it.” At the time, Lexa had not responded—she just turned around and left. But she knows what she would say now. _It is unfair_ , she thinks harshly to herself as she floats in the water, her eyes on the blue sky. She became a second four years early. She only spends any time with her teachers and Anya, and sometimes, with the Commander. She is never allowed to go anywhere on her own, and training has become so violent that the only thing she wishes to do afterwards is lay in bed and never move.

What has _heda_ given her, really?

She is so caught up in her thoughts about the Commander and Gustus’s words that she does not notice the stranger’s presence until the young girl speaks, “I know who you are.” Lexa’s head snaps towards the voice, and her eyes narrow when she spots the girl.

She cannot be much older than Lexa herself, but there is a wide, open smile on her face, and her dark eyes are alight. Lexa feels her lips twist in disgust—this girl is happy, and though she does not know her, Lexa hates her for just that reason.

“Where did you learn English?”

“All warriors learn English,” the girl responds, looking down at Lexa in amusement. She walks over to the edge of the water and kneels down, grinning slightly. “I know who you are,” she repeats, but Lexa is sure she is lying. Because she is not inclining her head stiffly like the other children—she is not staring at her like she is different.

“You are not even old enough to be a second. Where did you learn English?” As she speaks, she shifts so that one of her feet is brushing against a large rock at the bottom of the pond. It will give her surer footing should this girl try to attack her.

“My father is a healer,” the girl says with a shrug, and Lexa nearly rolls her eyes.

“It is forbidden to teach children English before they are sorted,” Lexa mutters, leaving out the part that the rule is nearly always broken, and that it does not apply to the children of warriors at all. (It is unfair, she thinks, much like Anya and Gustus’s expectations).

“Will you tell _heda_?” the girl asks teasingly, her grin widening. “Should I fear for my life?”

“Who are you?”

“A warrior.” Lexa crosses her arms over her chest at this response and she glares at the girl—glares at this girl who is happy, who is grinning, who is making Lexa feel uneasy and restless.

“You say you know who I am. Then you must know you should answer honestly.” The girl’s smile slips off her face and she shakes her head, her short dark hair falling into her eyes before she roughly drags her fingers through it and pushes it back.

“Why do you think I am lying?”

“You are too young to be a warrior.”

“And you are too young to be _heda_ ,” she says, a smile returning. “Yet that is what you are.” Lexa’s hand goes to the knife tucked into her belt.

“I am not _heda_.” The girl studies Lexa for a moment, as if she were something strange, and then shifts so that she is sitting on her haunches. Lexa wonders if she is preparing to attack, and her grip on her knife tightens.

“But you will be,” says the girl before she carelessly throws herself back so that she is laying on the grass—leaving herself completely vulnerable and further discrediting her claim that she is a warrior. No warrior would be so stupid. “And I will be a warrior.” Lexa feels a rush of envy at the longing in her voice. She knows what she wants, knows exactly where she fits in the world, but mostly importantly, she is sure of what she will be, and Lexa cannot imagine any greater gift. Because becoming _heda_ , what that means or entails, is still a mystery to her.

“You will be an awful warrior,” Lexa mutters, wading out of the water and kicking the girl’s foot. “You leave yourself too open.” This just makes her laugh, and she turns away from the sky to eye Lexa.

“It is not wrong to be open,” she says.

“It is suicidal and stupid.” At this, the girl sits up, her brows drawn together in confusion.

“I have faith, _heda_. Do you not have faith?”

“I am not _heda_ ,” Lexa repeats, and the girl shrugs, giving Lexa a knowing look.

“I suppose that is a ‘no,’” she laughs, shrugging again. “We will be good friends, I can already tell.” Lexa knows she should say what Anya always tells her (“There is no time for friends”) but instead, she finds herself moving over to sit cross-legged next to the girl, leaning back so that her eyes are on the sky.

“My name is Lexa,” she whispers, her heart pounding because she is not supposed to do this, she is not supposed to leave herself open. Yet somehow, she feels as if she can trust this girl—with just this much, at least, she can trust this girl.

“I am Costia,” the girl replies just as softly, and Lexa must turn her head to hide her smile.

* * *

 There are rumors of a war brewing between the _Trikru_ and an outlying Clan, and Lexa is told she must attend all the meetings with the generals. “You are here to watch and learn, Lexa,” the Commander tells her. “Say nothing during the meeting. You and I will confer once my men leave us.” Lexa’s nods, and she tightens the sash around her waist needlessly before following the Commander into the war room.

The generals who surround the enormous round table are large and terrifying, but when she spots Gustus (who offers her a wink), Lexa feels more at ease and moves to stand at the Commander’s side unhesitatingly. Several of the men and women she has never met before stare at her in wonder.

“This isLexa,” the Commander says, her tone cold and harsh—certainly nothing like what she uses with Lexa. “My Spirit has chosen her to be my successor.”

“She looks weak, _heda_ ,” a large woman standing in the back says gruffly, leaning forward and eyeing Lexa threateningly. “As if a summer’s breeze will blow her away.” The Commander raises an eyebrow and turns to Lexa questioningly.

“Are you weak like Grenda thinks, Lexa?” she asks, and Lexa feels her heart hammer in her chest. She thinks she is being asked to prove herself, but she doesn’t know how, doesn’t know how to prove she is strong when she always feel so weak. As Lexa’s silence grows longer, Grenda begins to laugh cruelly, and Lexa can feel her eyes burn. Everyone is watching her, everyone is testing her, and instead of proving her strength, she thinks she is about to cry.

Her hands begin to shake, and she is somewhat worried that her heart will beat right out her chest.

_Say nothing during the meeting_ , Lexa suddenly remembers the Commander instructing her, and a sense of calm washes over her, almost as if she is somewhere else, somewhere where all eyes are _not_ on her, where no one is waiting for her to fail, where no one doubts her strength. Her hands stop shaking, her heart rate slows, and the burning of her eyes ebbs, and Lexa feels calm enough to look unflinchingly back at Grenda. After what seems like ages, the Commander lets out a laugh and places a hand on her shoulder.

“You see?” she asks, addressing the generals. “The Commander’s Spirit is never wrong.” She pauses and looks around, as if to make sure no one dares question her again, and then gestures towards the maps and reports in front of her. “Now, let us address the real problem.” Everyone grunts their assent, and Gustus offers her the tiniest of smiles before he uses his eyes to redirect her attention back to the generals.

The problem, Lexa quickly gathers, is with the Boat Clan. The waters are dangerous this time of year, and they are unable to fish, meaning that food is scarce. Yet, instead of asking for food—for aid—the Boat Clan has resorted to attacking several _Trikru_ villages. Lexa watches as the Commander’s face darkens, her back and shoulders stiffening.

This is the _Commander_ , Lexa realizes suddenly. Not the woman who praised her first kill, not the leader who believed she was worth something. This is a cold, hard warrior, and for the first time, Lexa wonders if _this_ is what she is being taught to become—if _this_ is what it means to be _heda_.

“They made a grave error when they killed my people,” the Commander says, her jaw clenching. “ _Jus drein jus daun_. Blood _must_ have blood.” Lexa’s blood runs cold as the Commander turns to her, the usual kind smile replaced by a twisted grimace. “Do you understand, Lexa? Blood must _always_ have blood.”

Lexa nods, keeping her face as blank as she can (as Anya has taught her), but by the look in the Commander’s eyes, she is rather sure she was unable to hide her fear. And that, she thinks as she swallows nervously and refuses to break eye contact, is weakness.

So weak that a summer’s breeze could blow her away. 

* * *

 With the Boat Clan becoming more and more bold, the Commander spends very little time in Polis. At first, Lexa does not mind the separation—despite how fond she is of the older woman—because she has not been able to rid herself of the dark, harsh look the Commander had sported during her meeting with her generals. But then she learns that the Commander is going into battle, leading her people in a war against the Boat Clan, and she is gripped with fear.

What if the Commander dies? What if Lexa is thrust into a role she is not prepared for—will likely never be prepared for?

“You seem quieter, Lexa,” Anya says suddenly, breaking into Lexa’s thoughts. “Not that that is a bad thing.” Lexa looks at her mentor and she wonders is she can express her fears.

“The Commander has gone into battle,” Lexa finally says, deciding against confiding in Anya. But she underestimates how well her mentor knows her, because Anya raises an eyebrow.

“Death is not the end, Lexa. When the Commander passes, the Spirit will move to you, and you will become Commander. The cycle will begin anew.”

“What if…” Lexa trails off, and then tries again. “Grenda called me weak.” Anya rolls her eyes and waves a hand dismissively.

“Grenda is also a fool. Do not put stock in what the generals think of you—many would have you fail.”

“Why?”

“Because you will be their _heda_ one day, and they are arrogant enough to believe they know better than the Commander’s Spirit.” At Lexa’s confused look, Anya sighs and elaborates. “Power, Lexa. They want power.”

“Why do you think the Spirit chose me, Anya?” Her mentor sighs again, looking supremely annoyed by all the questions.

“I do not know, Lexa. There is something in you that others do not possess—something that sets you apart.” Lexa clenches her fists, looking away from Anya.

“So I am _different_ ,” she spits out, hating the word, hating how it alienates her—hating how only one person has ever seemed to not care about her being different. Anya, however, smacks Lexa lightly on the head, forcing her to look up.

“You are special,” she says, her voice clear and sure. Lexa nods, and she knows Anya can tell she does not believe her.

* * *

 “Who makes decisions while _heda_ is gone?” Costia asks between bites of food. Lexa has broken her arm (thanks to a particularly spirited opponent in training, a young man who was punished for being so reckless), and has afternoons free now that she is not expected to fight with only one arm (though Anya has warned her that this new freedom will only last a week, that a broken arm is not an indefinite excuse). It was by luck that she spotted Costia in the street as she aimlessly walked around, ignoring all the reluctant demonstrations of respect (Lexa has come to realize that _no one_ is quite fond of her).

“You promised no questions,” Lexa reminds her gently, and Costia nods, offering Lexa a sheepish grin in apology. She had forced the ‘future warrior’ to swear that she would ask no questions if they spent time together, but Costia is the sort of person Anya would describe as ‘having been hit one too many times on the head.’

It only took a minute for her to forget her promise.

“It is difficult not to be curious,” she says, grinning in a way that makes Lexa forgive her instantly. “Becoming _heda_ is an honor.”

“Yes, an honor,” Lexa parrots back, looking down at her food. She wonders if Costia would think it an honor if she saw the dark look on the Commander’s face. She wonders if Costia would feel this way if she knew what becoming _heda_ entails.

_They’re preparing to you die, Lexa_ , Rox had told her, and it is only now that she begins to understand what he meant.

“I would not want to be _heda_ , though,” Costia continues, and if it were not for the way she pointedly avoids eye contact, Lexa would have assumed she was oblivious to Lexa’s clear discomfort. “You are strong and brave, Lexa, far stronger and braver than any other warrior. And you will be a great Commander.” Lexa swallows, unsure how to respond to such blind conviction (Anya, Gustus, and the Commander _must_ have confidence in her, but this girl—this ‘soon to be warrior’—is under no such obligation, yet she is absolutely sure anyway).

_I have faith_ , she said by the pond.

For the first time, Lexa realizes those were not just mere words. 

* * *

 When the Commander returns victorious, the people of Polis celebrate.

In fact, it is not just the people of Polis. Men and women and children from many of the _Trigedakru_ villages pour into the city, bringing food, music, and dancing along with them. The streets of Polis are crammed with laughter and joy, and as Lexa watches them from her window, she simultaneously wants to join them in celebration and force them to stop, wanting to ask if they know how many warriors the Commander lost while fighting this war (because Lexa knows—Lexa was there when the Commander first arrived, was there when her advisors and generals commented that the sixty-six fallen warriors would need to be honored).

_Sixty-six_ , she thinks, closing her eyes. Sixty-six fallen men and women like Anya, Costia, and Rox—sixty-six people who had friends and families.

When the door to her room opens, Lexa does not even bother to turn around. She knows Anya must be annoyed with her now—with her sulking, with her refusal to celebrate with the others—but she cannot bring herself to care.

“Ah, I see Anya was right. You _are_ hiding up here like a child.” Lexa moves away from the window quickly and inclines her head.

“ _Heda_ ,” she says, not meeting the Commander’s eyes, even after she looks up again.

“Why do you refuse to celebrate, Lexa?” the Commander asks, moving over to sit at Lexa’s small desk, taking off her cumbersome shoulder guard and setting it on the ground. Only Anya has ever been in her room, and the Commander’s presence—especially when she is so casually attired—makes everything seems surreal. “This is a great victory.” Much like the first time they ever spoke, the Commander’s words do not match her tone or expressions—she sounds vaguely cheered and happy, but her grey eyes are downcast, and her lips are pulled down in a frown.

“Sixty-six died for this victory,” Lexa says softly, studying the Commander’s face closely, knowing that the comment will be taken as weakness. Surprisingly, however, the Commander smiles proudly at her.

“Anya says you keep asking why you were chosen,” she says, and Lexa curses Anya under her breath, feeling a little bit betrayed though she _knew_ that everything she said was being reported back to the Commander. “This is why.”

“I do not understand.”

“You did not make the decision to go to war. You did not ask for those men and women to lay down their lives. Yet you have taken it upon yourself to carry their deaths on your shoulders.” Something in her eyes changes, and Lexa wonders if the Commander _regrets_ finding her. “That is why you were chosen, Lexa. Because of your selfless sense of duty.”

“But that is not true, I am not selfless. I _want_ to celebrate, too. I _want_ to be out there, I want _so_ much.” The Commander looks at her sadly, and Lexa has to turn away. She does not want pity—she wants the Commander to admit she is wrong.

“Then why are you sitting here, all alone?” the Commander asks, leaning forward, her elbows propped up on her knees. When Lexa opens and closes her mouth several times in quick succession, unable to formulate a response—to turn her thoughts into words—the Commander laughs lightly, her eyes alive for the first time since she walked into the room. “You were born for this, Lexa,” she says, the smile still on her face. “You just do not realize it yet.”

“Is that why you are not celebrating? Because of a selfless sense of duty?” She sighs and rubs her eyes, a vulnerable combination of gestures Lexa does not think she has ever seen the Commander make before.

“No, I do not celebrate because sixty-six men and women died because I asked them to lay down their lives.” Her hands drops and she studies Lexa for a moment, a small smile appearing on her face. “Would you like to see what I do instead?” She stands in one fluid motion, and she holds out a hand. “Come, Lexa. Let me show you the good things about being _heda_.” Lexa does not hesitate to take the Commander’s hand, following her out, leaving the shoulder guard on the ground behind them.

“How old were you, _heda_?” Lexa asks as they walk, knowing she does not need to elaborate. The Commander looks down at her with a wry smile.

“I was quite young, younger than you,” she says. After a short pause, her smile becomes sad, and her grip on Lexa’s hand tightens slightly. “The Commander before me was a true warrior, and she led our people into many great battles. I was called to lead when I was only eleven.” At Lexa’s horrified look, the Commander lets out a booming laugh, and she lets go of her hand to ruffle her hair (which is not in the braids Anya taught her—the braids that mark her as different—because Lexa has learned there is great satisfaction in little rebellions). “Do not worry, child,” the Commander says, coming to a stop, and kneeling down so that they are eye-level. “I will not leave you alone for some time yet.”

“You cannot promise that,” Lexa tells her pointedly, remembering Anya’s words after she promised to be there for Tris: _It is selfish and foolish for you to believe you can be there for anyone._ All of the Commander’s hard edges soften at once, and for a moment—just a brief instant—Lexa sees her mother kneeling before her, whispering that it is all right, that it will be all right.

“No, I cannot. But I will try. Besides, even after I am gone, you will have Anya and Gustus to help you.” She stands and opens the door they have stopped in front of, leading her into a room filled with hundreds of books. “Were you taught to read, Lexa?” the Commander asks cheerfully, gesturing to the stacks of books with a smile, something about her lighter, more free, than Lexa’s ever seen.

“Reading is not necessary for survival,” Lexa says, parroting back what her father once told her. Even Gustus—who knows so much, who is so wise—only was able to teach her to read and write a few things—common phrases, and one specific term he told her to memorize and fear: _Mount Weather_.

“Ah, but it _is_ necessary for _our_ survival, Lexa,” the Commander tells her fervently. “In these books, you will find answers. You will discover new worlds, and you will not be so alone.”

“It is only words, _heda_. How can words make you less alone?” The Commander grins, and pokes Lexa in the middle of her forehead, the lighthearted action taking her by surprise.

“They will speak to you, Lexa, in a way no one else can,” she says brightly, but Lexa does not understand what she means. For whatever reason, this does not bother her at all—if anything, it seems to energize her further, so much so that the broken and sad Commander she saw in her room seems more like a dream than a memory. “This is the greatest gift I can give you,” she says, sounding breathless. “One day you will understand.”

(It is only much later, when she is in bed, clutching one of the books the Commander gave her to her chest, that Lexa wonders if the Commander had been holding back tears).

(As she dozes off, Lexa pushes away the thought. The Commander is strong, brave, and selfless—why would she have been crying?). 

* * *

 The children walk as if they fear an attack, and considering where they have come from, Lexa does not quite blame them. On her right, Costia pulls her jacket tighter around herself, and cranes her head, straining to see the procession.

“Why does the Commander house them?” she asks, and Anya rolls her eyes at the question. When Lexa asked if she could spend the day with Costia, her mentor had agreed reluctantly—now, it seems, she is regretting that decision.

“You ask too many questions, little girl. Your curiosity will land you in trouble.” The admonishment, though not even intended for Lexa, makes her ears redden and cheeks heat up, but Costia seems unaffected.

“I just want to know more,” she says without looking away from the warriors who lead the children into the Commander’s home. They are orphans, left without a family following the battles between the Tree People and the Boat Clan, and as tradition dictates, they are taken in by the Commander—so that the one woman who cannot bear children (to eliminate distractions, the Commander explained to Lexa, but more importantly to avoid even the possibility of nepotism) is given the same honor and respect all others achieve when they bring life into the world.

“It is not for you to know,” Anya snaps, and she lightly taps Costia on the back of the head, but Costia is not chastised. If anything, she seems amused.

“I understand,” she says, but her eyes are screaming that she will ask Lexa hundreds of questions when they are alone. Lexa wonders if Costia merely enjoys asking the questions (because at this point, Lexa thinks, she should know better than to think Lexa will give in to her smile and ill-placed faith). “How long will they be staying?

“ _Child_ —” Anya begins, clearly out of patience, and Lexa steps between her mentor and her friend (because, yes, that is what Costia is; she is a _friend_ ).

“We can answer just _one_ question, right Anya?” Lexa asks, holding up her hands. When her mentor just narrows her eyes and huffs, Lexa grins victoriously and turns to Costia. “The children stay until they are given a proper home or they become seconds. None stay past the age of twelve.” Costia considers this answer for a moment, biting her bottom lip, and then she shakes her head.

“No, I do not want this to be the one question you answer.” Anya lets out a growl, but Lexa knows she is not actually mad; if she were, Costia would bear the scars.

“Let this be a lesson then. On patience. And _silence_.” Anya looks down at them, and rolls her eyes. “Go. Do whatever it is you two do.” They do not need to be told twice; before Anya’s even done rolling her eyes, Lexa and Costia rush off, heading straight to the gardens behind the Commander’s home (Lexa never considers it _her_ home, because she is a guest for now. One day, the Commander likes to remind her, all of this will be hers, and Lexa wishes to postpone that moment for as long as she possibly can—even if it is only in her mind).  

“I know it makes you upset when I ask so many questions,” Costia says when they skid to a halt by the flowers that the Commander herself painstakingly tends to (when she was away, Lexa took on the responsibility, somehow knowing that it was a test—a test she passed effortlessly). “I promise to try and stop.”

“No.” The one word takes them both by surprise, and Lexa has to take a deep breath before she elaborates. “I like the questions, even if I cannot answer them for you. It means you care.” Costia’s answering grin makes Lexa feel the same way the Commander’s soft assurances and her mother’s arms made her feel—warm, safe, content.

* * *

 “What is the nature of your relationship with that girl? The one who is to be a warrior?” Anya asks as they train. Fighting against Anya is always terrifying—mostly because she is not afraid to hurt Lexa—but today there is a glint in her eye that Lexa does not understand.

“Costia? She is a friend.”

“You have no time for friends,” Anya says, her blows becoming more and more savage. Lexa wonders if she believes that she will make her point more effectively by using more violence (Lexa quickly realizes that Anya is right—her point comes across loud and clear).

“ _Hodnes laik kwelnes, Leksa_ ,” Anya tells her, and Lexa has been speaking exclusively in English for so long that it takes her a second to understand what her mentor is saying: love is weakness.

“I do not love Costia. I am not in love with her,” Lexa immediately says, parrying Anya’s next attack, her sword vibrating from the force. For a moment, they are back in Lexa’s village, and Anya is staring her down, trying to make her understand that her love would be her village’s downfall. She did not understand then, and she does not understand now.

The Commander loves—Lexa has seen it, has seen how she is pained by her people’s pain, how she gets joy from her people’s joy. Was that not love? And though Lexa would never admit it aloud, she is sure that the Commander cares for her, sees her as the daughter she cannot have. How could love be weakness then, if the strongest person she knows offers it so fully, so willingly?

_Because it is not weakness_ , Lexa thinks as Anya drops her sword and looks at her with a mix of pity and worry. _It is not_.

“But you will be,” Anya says softly, and the words sends shivers down Lexa’s back because Anya sounds absolutely devastated at the very prospect. “Do you trust me, Lexa?”

“Yes, of course.” The answer comes without even a second of hesitation, and she is graced with the smallest of smiles.  

“All that love in you? Hide it. Push it deep within you, and let it sleep. You are young, and you may not understand, but you are not someone who can afford to love.” Lexa swallows and lowers her sword as well, knowing that their training session is over. She nods stiffly.

“Do you think _heda_ does not love, Anya?” Lexa asks, unable to help herself. The look on Anya’s face is inscrutable—it is the first time this talent (which Anya taught her) is used against her.

“I think the Commander cares for you, Lexa,” she says, answering the question Lexa wanted answered, not the one she asked. “You have been chosen by the Spirit, and it is her duty to protect and train you until the Spirit moves onto you.” She pauses, and there is that glint in her eyes again, the glint that Lexa does not understand. “But _heda_ was called to lead at the age of eleven, and any of the love she was once capable of has long since washed away.”

Lexa thinks of the books the Commander showed her, of the earnest way she told her that she would not leave her alone for some time yet, and with burning eyes and a breaking heart, Lexa nods her understanding.

“Good,” Anya says brusquely. “Let’s end training early today—it is far too cold anyway.” Lexa just nods again, because even words would not be enough to fill the void.


	3. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am not hard on you to hurt you,” she says, emotion flickering in her eyes for the first time, but it is something Lexa is not quite sure she understands. “I am hard on you because all of my hopes rest on your shoulders, and you must be strong enough to carry it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long!!

**Ten**

It never crosses her mind that this is not something she should be doing.

Costia’s hand grips hers tightly as they run, cutting through alleys and ducking behind vendors’ stalls every so often to ensure they are not being followed. They had slipped past Lexa’s guards easily; Anya’s ever-watchful eyes were the reason for the sneaking.

It never crosses her mind that this is not something she should be doing, but she also knows that Anya would never approve.

“Hurry, Lexa!” Costia says, tugging on Lexa’s arm, impatience and excitement lacing her tone.

“Where are we going?” Lexa asks for the umpteenth time, but judging from Costia’s enormous grin, she knows she has been unsuccessful in hiding her own excitement—in remaining detached and aloof as Anya has been teaching her.

“You are the _heda_ to be, Lexa, but you do not know your own city.” Costia comes to an abrupt halt, and Lexa nearly rams into her back. “I want to show you want the Commander cannot.” Lexa’s eyes narrow of their own accord, automatically suspicious of any claims that there is something in Polis that the _Commander_ is unaware of, but Costia’s grin remains in place as they stand there, hidden behind a woman’s food cart, and Lexa softens (this is her friend, and she does not think that Costia would lie).

“How would you know what the Commander knows?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. Costia rolls her eyes playfully, but there is something on her face that Lexa does not recognize, something that makes her jokes and playfulness seem feigned.

“Lexa, do you trust me?” Lexa purses her lips, unable to look away from Costia’s dark eyes. She has known her for a year—has trained with her, has shared meals with her—and after Anya, Gustus, and the Commander herself, there is no one that Lexa likes more than Costia. But trust is tricky; she has been warned against trust (“It is dangerous and must be given cautiously. You must hoard it, Lexa. It is the most valuable thing you possess,” Gustus has said. Anya is always more succinct: “It will get you killed”).

There are exactly four people she trusts unequivocally. She wonders if Costia can be the fifth.

She opens her mouth and then closes it again, the words unable to come. But rather than look disappointed or angry (as Lexa assumed she would) Costia just seems more determined. “I know what Anya and Gustus teach you, Lexa,” she says, stepping closer, their noses barely an inch apart. “I think they are wrong, and I will spend my entire life proving that to you.” Lexa does not back away though she desperately wants to—she is not used to being challenged, she is not used to having people question her this way—and instead fixes Costia with her blankest look (the one Anya taught her, but she has made all her own).

“Do what you will,” she says, and for the first time, she sees a flash of hurt on Costia’s face.

“Please don’t do that,” she says, blinking rapidly and stepping back. “Not with me.”

“What are you talking about?” Lexa asks, somehow no longer able to meet Costia’s eyes. She stares instead at the food cart, focusing on the selection of dried meats and fruits. Costia moves so that she is once again in Lexa’s line of sight.

“I have seen you do this with the seconds you train with, and the Commander’s generals and advisors. You hide.” Costia reaches out and takes Lexa’s hand, but the action surprises her and she snatches it away, causing Costia’s brows to furrow in confusion and hurt. “I understand,” she says softly, turning her face away. Lexa wants to ask her what she understands, wants her to explain it because _she_ does not understand, but though her mouth opens and closes several times in quick succession, no words come out. Costia takes a deep breath and turns back to face her, a smile fixed on her face that does not match her dull eyes. “Come. I wanted to show you something incredible.”

“What is it?” Lexa asks, refusing to budge. Costia, however, widens her fake smile and purposefully misunderstands Lexa’s question (she can tell it is on purpose because Costia is her friend, she has known her for a year—trained with her, shared meals with her—and after the Commander, Anya, and Gustus, there is no one Lexa likes more. She just does not know how to tell _Costia_ that).

“It would ruin the surprise if I told you!” Costia says, motioning for Lexa to follow her (the fact that she does not just grab Lexa by the arm and drag her away is not lost on her, and Lexa wonders if she somehow broke something she did not know could be damaged).

They walk down the street in silence, and for the first time, Lexa finds herself feeling a vague sense of guilt. She wants to say something, wants to somehow fill the chasm that has sprung between them, but she is at a loss. Anya has taught her to fight; Gustus has taught her to strategize; the Commander has taught her to lead.

Only now does she wish they had taught her to be a friend.

Costia is oblivious to Lexa’s troubles—she is continually looking behind them (still making sure they are not being followed), and her eyes have taken on an excited gleam that makes Lexa slightly nervous. “Not much further now,” Costia mumbles, and she reaches out and grabs Lexa’s wrist, almost subconsciously. Normally, the action would have gone unnoticed by both of them (Costia is always reaching for her hand and Lexa is used to it by now), but this time it brings them both up short. “I’m sorry,” Costia says, beginning to pull away. Lexa shakes her head and does not let her.

“Don’t be sorry.” For a moment, she is both worried that Costia will see this as some large gesture of trust (which it is _not_ ) and nervous that Costia will not understand that it is significant nonetheless (because this is as close as she can get to being a friend—this is all she has learned in the year she has known Costia). But Costia smiles, soft and sad, and Lexa wonders if she has underestimated her friend.

“Up here,” Costia says, pointing to her right. Lexa looks over and sees that they have come to a stop in front of an old, decrepit building (most likely one of those left over from the _Dark Days_. Gustus, whose grandmother had survived the bombs and told him stories growing up, claimed that Polis once was a much larger city, sprawling and immense, easy to get lost in. “There is much from the old world hidden in Polis,” he told Lexa once. And here was the proof). Over the sounds of the market and street vendors, Lexa can hear something else…

“What is that?” she asks, and for the first time, Costia looks vaguely uncomfortable.

“Music,” she answers, shrugging when Lexa’s eyes widen.

“It is _forbidden_!” Only a select few are allowed the luxury of learning to play music, and they only played on special occasions—occasions like the victory over the Boat Clan. But music—any art—is strictly forbidden to all others: it is not necessary for survival, and thus, it is a waste of time (as Gustus and Anya have explained: Music cannot grow food. Painting cannot protect the villages).

“I know it is. But Lexa—” She does not wait to hear anymore. Lexa pushes past Costia and rushes into the building, pulling out her red sash (which she had stuffed in her pocket when she and Costia snuck out) and ties it around her waist.

She is the _heda-_ to-be. She must uphold the Commander’s laws.

She follows the sound of the music, heading down the rickety stairs two at a time, ignoring Costia’s panicked protests from behind her. The basement is sturdy, however, quite unlike the building above it, and Lexa can understand why they would hold illicit meetings down here. The market is loud and drowns them out, and the basement is cool, sheltered, and out of the way—a place no one would think to look. When she gets to the foot of the stairs, Lexa comes to a halt, and Costia rams into her back.

“Lexa—” she hisses, but Lexa raises a hand and she immediately falls silent. It is unusual, having Costia listen to her so readily, but she does not question it. Instead, she walks further into the basement, looking around her in awe.

It is not just music that they hide. Paintings, books, papers, crude pottery and carved wooden figures litter the basement, and—completely oblivious to Lexa and Costia’s presence—there are half a dozen young men and women, working studiously in the far corner. One—the source of the music Lexa heard from the street—plucks at the strings of a strange instrument, before shifting and running a piece of wood (with what looks like hair attached to it) over the strings, eliciting a sound the likes of which she has never heard.

“It is called a ‘violin,’” Costia whispers in her ear, pointing at the girl with short dark hair, who is playing the instrument. “Before the bombs, there used to be large groups of people who played them.”

“How do you know this?” Lexa demands, disbelief tinting her tone. Costia points to the books and papers that line the shelves by the wall (it is not nearly as impressive as the Commander’s _library_ , as she called it, yet is it impressive nonetheless).

“Eve says that this place used to be a ‘music shop.’ Where people could buy instruments. But only that violin and Ric’s flute survived.” At the sound of their names, the girl with the _violin_ stops playing and gives Costia a warm smile, and a frail-looking boy—who had been fiddling with a piece of wood—drops his carving knife and laughs.

“Costia!” he cries, jumping up. It is only then that they notice Lexa. Their eyes flit between Costia and the red sash at Lexa’s waist, and Eve’s face darkens.

“Why did you bring _her_ here?” she demands, reverently putting the violin down and approaching Costia and Lexa. Ric does not move, and the others—who have hastily put away their books and art—do not either.

“There is nothing wrong with Lexa,” Costia says hotly, and Lexa’s fists clench on their own accord at the disbelief obvious in Eve’s blue eyes. “She will not say anything.” Lexa nearly laughs; did Costia not know her at all?

“She is the Commander’s _lap dog_ ,” Eve hisses, stepping forward, clearly finding Costia’s comment just as unbelievable as Lexa (though for entirely different reasons). Lexa’s hand goes to the knife tucked away at her waist automatically, adopting a defensive stance. She is smaller than Eve and Ric (and the others who continue to sit and watch) but she is quite sure she could best them in a fight.

She can best Anya every so often—compared to her, these _artists_ are nothing.

“You said that the Commander does not understand why we still need art and science and music. Well, here is our chance to _make_ her understand. Lexa will help us!” Lexa snorts, the sound unkind and derisive—certainly not anything she would have ever imagined she would use against Costia.

“I will do no such thing. The Commander enforces these laws for a reason. _This,_ ” Lexa gestures to the room, shaking her head, “is not necessary for survival.” Surprisingly, rather than attack, Eve laughs and rolls her eyes, her shoulders relaxing as she takes several steps back, clearly surrendering.

“Tell me, Lexa. What does the Commander do when she is not off killing people?” Lexa feels a rush of anger take hold of her, but Costia slips her hand into hers and grasps tightly—as if she can feel the anger rolling off Lexa in waves and is attempting to somehow quell it with her coolness.

“The Commander fights in order to protect her people,” Lexa spits, glaring at Eve, caught off-guard by the girl’s casual disavowal of the Commander. She did not realize there was unrest, that there existed people who _disagreed_ with the Commander. Did they not realize they owed their safety, their _lives_ , to the Commander? That she was the only reason they could safely hole up in this basement and play their illegal _music_ and make their illegal _art_?

“I told you she was the Commander’s lap dog,” Eve says with a smirk, and for the first time, Lexa _hates_ someone.

“You speak freely down here, hiding like a coward. But what have _you_ done for your people? How have you protected them, kept them alive?”

“Music, art, science—these things are important, even if your Commander has told you they are not. We _need_ them in order to grow as a people.” Lexa laughs, the sound cold and harsh, and even Eve looks surprised. Costia lets go of Lexa’s hand.

“Music, art, and science will do no one any good if we are all _dead_.”

“Lexa,” Costia begins softly, stepping forward so that she stands between Eve and Lexa—a sort of shield or guard. “Just hold the violin. Play something. You will understand what she means.”

“Why are you doing this, Costia? You want to be a warrior, you know how important our ways are.” Lexa stares at her as she swallows and looks away, a lachrymose expression forming on her face.

“Why do our ways have to only involve war?” she asks, rubbing her eyes and looking back up to stare at Lexa defiantly. She suddenly thinks of the books in the Commander’s library, how it was ‘the greatest gift’ she could give. It occurs to Lexa that the rules have never applied to her like they do to Eve, Costia, and the frail-looking boy, Ric.

Lexa does not answer her friend. She backs away slowly, and once she reaches the rickety stairs, she flees.

* * *

 Lexa’s foot taps against the ground incessantly, her fingers playing with the corner of the page, idly folding and unfolding the flimsy paper. The book in her lap is heavy, tedious, and far too difficult for her—she suspects the Commander knew _exactly_ what she was doing when she shoved this book into Lexa’s arms when she arrived for their daily lesson.

It is a punishment—it is a declaration that she _knows._

“ _Heda_ —”

“Our hour is not yet up, Lexa,” she interrupts, not looking up from her book. She is sitting in a high-backed chair, her legs kicked up on the table, the book in her lap looking far more interesting than Lexa’s. After a minute, Lexa tries again.

“ _Heda_ —” The Commander stops her this time by slamming her book shut and looking up.

“How many pages did you read?” Lexa swallows, shrinking under the Commander’s gaze.

“Ten. _Two,”_ she corrects when all she gets is a disbelieving look. “I wish to apologize.”

“For what?” the Commander asks, shifting so that her feet no longer rest on the table. Instead, she sits on the literal edge of her seat, leaning forward with her elbows propped on her knees, as if she is greatly invested in the conversation. “For interrupting our reading time?” Lexa nods.

“Yes. But also for something else.”

“For something else? What else have you done, Lexa?” the Commander asks, her eyes wide with curiosity. Lexa knows she is merely playing at obliviousness, knows that she is making light of the situation, yet tears spring to her eyes anyway at the thought that she may have disappointed the Commander (that this act, like all her acts, is hiding the fact that she is hurt, upset, and Lexa hates the idea that she could have been the source of such pain for the Commander).

“During my free time a few days ago I snuck out and explored Polis with Costia.” She leaves out Ric and Eve and their music shop because she has yet to form an opinion on them. On one hand, she _hates_ Eve, hates the way she spoke of the Commander—hates the disrespect she heard in Eve’s tone. On the other hand, Lexa could not fault them completely. It was true, they were hurting no one, and Lexa had never heard a sound as beautiful as the one Eve elicited from the violin. She stares at the Commander, waiting to see disappointment at the lie, waiting to see some sort of reaction, but nothing comes. The Commander merely stares back, her grey eyes blank.

“I see,” she finally mutters. “How was this trip?”

“I fought with Costia,” Lexa answers honestly. Again, there is no reaction from the Commander; her expression remains clear.

“What did you fight about?” she asks, the tiniest tinge of curiosity in her tone. Lexa puts her book aside and sits a little straighter, sensing she is delving into dangerous territory (after all, she has lost count of the number of times she has seen the Commander hide how she felt, only to violently lash out at a later point—as it often happened during meetings with her advisors and generals).

“She claims I am closed off to her.”

“And do you agree?”

“Yes. But Anya told me to be closed off. That I have no time for friends. It isn’t wrong, is it, _heda?_ ” The Commander eyes her oddly for a moment and then sighs.

“Anya expressed her worries about the girl to me as well. I argued that you are smart, that you know where your duty lies. Do you, Lexa?”

“Yes, _heda_.”

“Good. I see no problem with you training with the girl or spending time with her here, in our home, where you are safe.” Lexa nods quickly, but the Commander is not finished. “However, should you ever sneak off again, Lexa, there will be dire consequences. You have no time for distractions—do not allow your friend to turn into one.”  Her voice is cold by the end of her sentence, and Lexa knows this is more than a warning, it is a promise. She swallows, unable to look the Commander in the eye.

“Yes, _heda_ ,” she says, surprised when the Commander leans forward and gently raises Lexa’s chin with two fingers.

“I am not hard on you to hurt you,” she says, emotion flickering in her eyes for the first time, but it is something Lexa is not quite sure she understands. “I am hard on you because all of my hopes rest on your shoulders, and you must be strong enough to carry it.”

“I understand.” The Commander laughs, and she pats Lexa’s cheek softly, shaking her head. This time, Lexa _does_ understand the emotion in her eyes—it is something she sees in Anya and Gustus’s eyes all the time, something she has seen with Costia as well: pity.

“Oh no, my dear child. I don’t think you do.” She pats Lexa’s cheek again, this time smiling slightly—a smile that does not quite reach her grey eyes. “But you are the rain after a drought, Lexa.” She does not elaborate, and they both go back to reading without another word.

* * *

 It is an entire week before she sees Costia again.

Lexa has been sparring with a boy twice her size for nearly two hours, and her arm feels like lead. She can barely lift, let alone swing, a sword. Anya grunts, giving Lexa an approving smack to the back of the head, when Costia walks up to them, looking rather nervous. Anya rolls her eyes.

“If I had it my way, she would be sent off to Indra’s village.” Lexa laughs, and for whatever reason, Anya looks away. “You’re to meet with the Commander in an hour. Don’t forget.”

“Yes, Anya.” Her mentor rolls her eyes again, but she walks off, dragging the boy with her, loudly telling him that he was going far too easy on Lexa. Costia shuffles forward, not at all her usual cheerful self, and Lexa is instantly worried.

“Costia—”

“I’m _sorry_ , Lexa,” she interrupts, wringing her hands, her dark eyes welling up with unshed tears. “I should not have taken you to Eve. It was a mistake.” Lexa stares at her friend for a moment, not understanding the apology.

“Why? Because you’re worried I will tell _heda_ about them? Or because you know what they are doing is wrong?” Costia hardens all at once, and she shakes her head.

“You’re being unfair. And if you bothered to think for yourself, you would see that.” Lexa steps forward, her weariness all but forgotten.

“I think for myself, and I agree with the Commander.”

“No, you just blindly follow what she says.” Costia no longer looks nervous, she looks _angry_ , and Lexa cannot imagine why. “Ric is too frail to be a warrior or farmer or healer, Lexa. His family cast him out because he was weak. _Music_ saved his life. Eve saved his life.”

“A life that contributes nothing to our people. He may as well have died.” Costia frowns, taking a step back.

“You don’t mean that,” she says, shaking her head and looking at Lexa like she never quite saw her clearly before. When Lexa does not respond, her mouth falls open. “Lexa…it brings hope. We all need hope to survive.”

“No.”

“Why are you being like this?” Lexa raises her chin, and fixes Costia with her blankest look (the one Anya taught her, the one she made all her own).

“I have a duty to my people,” she says, thinking of the Commander’s warning—her promise. “I refuse to be distracted by silly things like music and art.” Costia shakes her head and reaches out to grab her arm, gripping onto it so tightly, Lexa is rather sure it will leave a bruise.

“Come with me. Please. Just trust me. Let me show you that it is not a distraction.” Lexa thinks of the Commander’s warning, of the disapproval and disappointment she hid from her, and is close to shaking her head. After the Commander, Anya, and Gustus, there is no one in the world Lexa likes more than Costia. But that is only _after_ the Commander, Anya, and Gustus. “Please,” Costia repeats, her voice strained, her eyes pleading, and Lexa finds herself easily swayed. She nods, feeling a strange swooping in her belly when Costia immediately envelopes her in a tight hug.

“We only have an hour, Costia,” she warns, pushing her friend away, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. Costia grins.

“I only need half that to convince you.”

* * *

 The trip back to the music shop is much like the first time. They run, looking behind them every few second, laughing and giggling as they go. Costia holds onto her hand, and the touch is familiar, warm, comforting, and Lexa wonders if she is becoming far too accustomed to Costia’s presence. Lexa wonders if she has not been as closed off as she imagined. She stares at Costia from behind, stares at the girl’s dark curls bouncing up and down as they run, stares at their interlocking fingers.

She stops wondering; in only a year, Costia has managed to seep deep into her skin, and Lexa finds she does not quite mind. They are friends, and Lexa _trusts_ her (there were four people she trusted unequivocally, and now, there are five).

They head down the rickety stairs together, and just like last time, they are met with the beautiful sound of the violin. Eve is alone, and when she hears them, she puts the violin down, her hand immediately going to a knife hidden at her waist.

“The Commander’s lap dog is back, I see,” she says, raising one eyebrow. “No one is willing to come back since you found us, you know. They all think the Commander knows about this place and will kill us all for breaking her laws.” Costia steps forward.

“Lexa would never do that. She knows we have done nothing wrong. You shouldn’t judge her when you don’t even know her.” Eve stares at Costia for a moment, then turns to look at Lexa, a smile appearing on her face.

“Costia, go stand guard.”

“But—”

“Go. Don’t you want me to convince the _heda_ -to-be that music is good?” Costia nods stiffly and turns to leave, squeezing Lexa’s hands gently as she passes by. Eve watches her go, and when she and Lexa are alone, she sighs and throws herself onto a chair. She opens her mouth, but Lexa cuts her off before she can get a word out.

“Why didn’t you attack that day? You had a knife. I was clearly outnumbered. And I was a threat. Why just let me go?” Eve laughs.

“Because _you_ didn’t attack. You were all defense, _heda_ -to-be.” She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and Lexa finds she much prefers this Eve to the one who insulted the Commander. “I knew you would be willing to at least listen—it is much more than I can say for your _heda_.”

“She is your _heda_ , too.”

“She is my oppressor. She tells me that what I love is waste of time. She _kills_ those of us who dare disagree. She is not my _heda_ —she is my enemy.”

“You don’t know her,” Lexa argues, angry once more, remembering why she _hates_ Eve.

“No, I don’t, and I have no desire to. I only wish to play music in peace.”

“Our Commander’s laws must be upheld.” Eve stares at her oddly, and then nods.

“You will tell her, won’t you? About this place?”

“I don’t know.” Lexa thinks of Costia, how _sure_ she was that she could convince her. Lexa thinks of how angry her friend would be if she told the Commander about the music shop. Eve gets up with a sigh, and picks up the violin, her fingers running along the wood with reverence and love.

“Then this will be my only chance to convince you, I suppose. Come here, _heda-_ to-be, let me show you why I love this instrument.” She holds out the violin, and Lexa takes it with trembling hands. Eve positions the instrument on her left shoulder, pressing her chin down into the wood, and then hands her the stick with the hair. “Just run the hair across the string,” she instructs, and Lexa does so. The sound is high pitched and scratchy, but Eve is laughing and Lexa cannot help but join in. “It took me months before I could make a clear sound,” Eve says, taking back the violin. She demonstrates with an exaggerates flourish, and the sound that fills the basement makes Lexa’s heart sing.

“It is beautiful.”

“Yes, it is,” Eve mutters, her face falling. “Promise me, Lexa. Promise me that when you are _heda_ you will change things. I know you will tell the Commander about this place, but I will forgive you for it if you just promise me now you will not let music die.”

“The Commander’s laws must be upheld,” Lexa says, wishing more than anything she could give Eve the promise. “But I won’t tell her about this place.” Eve snorts, shaking her head.

“You are the Commander’s lap dog. I don’t believe a word you say.” She gestures violently towards the stairs, and Lexa realizes she is being dismissed. She is halfway up the stairs when Eve speaks up once more. “Have you ever had something you love taken away, lap dog?” Lexa thinks of her mother, of the way she held her when she was scared or upset. She thinks of her father and his kindness, his softness. She thinks of Rox and his fierce desire to protect her.

“No. _Hodnes laik kwelnes._ ” Eve’s mirthless laughter is the last thing she hears before the stairs collapse under her prolonged weight, sending her crashing to the ground.

Her head slams against the hard floor, and the world goes black.

* * *

When she wakes up, her entire body aches. Her arm is wrapped with bandages, and her head is sore, but mostly she just feels stupid. She sits up slowly, unsure of where she is. The confusion only lasts for a second, because Anya’s voice breaks into her thoughts, and she realizes she is in her room, in her own bed.

“So you’re alive. I suppose the Commander will be relieved. She had nearly half a dozen healers in here earlier to make sure nothing happened to you.” Lexa looks at Anya, unsure how she should take her mentor’s dispassionate tone.

“Anya—” she begins helplessly, but it is as if the single word is enough to break the dam, because Anya throws her hands up in the air.

“What you did was _foolish_ , Lexa! You were told not to go anywhere. You were told to not wander around Polis with that girl. But you _disobeyed_.” Lexa has never seen Anya quite so angry, has never seen her pace the way she is pacing now—moving from one side of the room to the other at a furious rate, continuing to gesture wildly with her hands.

“Anya—”

“Silence! Even worse is that no one knows where you went. You were dragged back here, bloody and bruised and _unconscious_ , and the only thing the girl would say was that you’d fallen.” Anya shakes her head, pausing briefly to fix Lexa with a glare. “Where did you _go_?”

“We went to the market. We just walked around.”

“Why do you insist on lying to me?”

“I am not lying!”

“Who are you protecting, Lexa? Is it the girl?”

“The girl has a name!” Lexa fires back, getting to her feet, groaning and placing a hand on her head. “She has a name, Anya.” There is a look of shock on Anya’s face for only a moment before she recovers, advancing towards Lexa with a furious expression.

“You would defend her?” she asks, her voice dangerously soft. “You would defend her even though she put your life in danger?”

“It was an _accident_. And I’m fine.”

“Lexa—” She does not get to know what Anya wanted to say because her bedroom door flies open, and the Commander sweeps in, dressed in full battle gear, seemingly unbothered by the weight of the shoulder guard, her red sash flowing behind her impressively, the war paint on her face making her look fearsome.

“ _Enough_.” The single word sends shivers down Lexa’s back. She has seen the Commander angry plenty of times. She just has never seen the Commander’s ire directed towards her in such a way. “Twelve of you, and I am beginning to wonder if I didn’t make a mistake after all.” Lexa’s heart races, because she is not quite sure she understands what the Commander means, yet at the same time, she is rather sure she _does_ , and that terrifies her. (She is a mistake, a mistake, a _mistake_ ). Gone is the Commander who did not want to hurt her, the one who smiled and laughed with her, the one who spent hours teaching her how to read.

Instead, Lexa feels she is faced with a formidable foe—faced with the terrifying oppressor that Eve spoke of—and for the first time, she wonders if she had a point.

“From this moment on, Lexa, you go _nowhere_ without supervision. You will dedicate every minute of every day to your training and books. Do you understand me?” Lexa nods quickly, trying to hide the shaking of her hands, trying to hide her pain (she does not think anyone, least of all the Commander, will be sympathetic to her pain at the moment). “And remember this: the only reason your _friend_ ,” she hisses out the word, “has been spared is because she risked her life to bring you back to me. But I do not forgive twice, Lexa.”

“Yes, _heda_.” The Commander ignores her soft words and turns her hardened gaze to Anya.

“When she was entrusted to you, you swore you could handle the task. You swore you would not make the same mistakes as your mentor, and I even gave him a second chance. But this, Anya, this is a grave error.” Anya stands straight, still, and calm. Lexa does not understand how she does not collapse beneath the weight of the Commander’s glare. 

“I am sorry, _heda_. It will not happen again.” The Commander shakes her head, looking regal, proud, and _dark_.

“No, it will not.” Lexa takes several steps back at the tone, at the way the Commander spits the words out. “Remember this, Anya. Should something happen to Lexa, it will be on _your_ head.” She does not spare either of them another glance—she sweeps out the same way she came, and Lexa can do nothing but stand there and tremble. Anya’s shuddering breath is what finally breaks her out of her daze.

“I am so sorry, Anya,” she begins, desperately apologetic. Something on Anya’s face changes, and Lexa is sure she will face the brunt of her mentor’s anger. But she watches in surprise as Anya steps closer, kneeling down and shaking her head.

“The fault is mine. The Commander is right—I have treated you as a child, when you are the _heda_ -to-be. It was my error.” She looks depressed by the fact, and Lexa cannot imagine why (she is too grateful that at least Anya does not hate her—that at least Anya’s eyes are not filled with disappointment and anger). When Anya pulls her into an embrace, however, Lexa tenses, waiting for the blow that is sure to come—waiting to hear what has made Anya so depressed. “Things will change from here on out, Lexa,” Anya says softly, allowing Lexa to bury her head into her shoulder, not even mentioning the tears Lexa is sure she feels dripping onto her neck. “She gave you ten years. That is more than anyone gave her.” Lexa grips tighter to her mentor.

“I have never seen her like that,” she says, her voice no more than a whisper, as if she could hide the weakness she feels in her bones and chest by speaking softly. Anya rocks her side to side for a moment before she answers.

“You are the rain after a drought, Lexa. And _heda_ thought she lost you.”  

* * *

 “I am not the only one, am I?” Lexa asks, interrupting Gustus’s lesson. He raises an eyebrow.

“Of course not. It would be foolish to place all our hopes in one child.”

“So I may not be the next _heda_?”

“No, you are the next _heda_.”

“But if there are others—”

“—do you see them here?” Gustus interrupts, poking her shoulder, a small smile pulling at his lips. “You are the one that she wanted here, the one she invested everything in. You _are_ the one.” Lexa puts her head on the table, eyeing Gustus quizzically.

“How does she know? If the Spirit chose several of us, how does she know?” Gustus reaches out and places his large hand on her head, the gesture comforting her somewhat (it was the only way he ever showed his affection, and Lexa is _craving_ her father’s soft voice, her mother’s gentle hugs, her brother’s mischievous grin—Lexa is _craving_ affection).

“ _Heda_ has recognized herself in you, Lexa.” She nods as best she can, her cheek rubbing against the wood of the table. “The two of you are more alike than you know.”

“Do you think she will ever forgive me?” Gustus lets out a laugh, looking mildly surprised.

“Is that what has gotten you so down, child?” He laughs again, patting her head gently, a smile adorning his face. “This is not an issue of forgiveness, but of _trust_. You must show _heda_ you are committed to your future.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Through sacrifice, Lexa. Your loyalty is only to _heda_. Understand?” Lexa stares at him for a moment in confusion, though that shifts quickly to frustration once she grasps his meaning.

“You knew where I went this entire time,” she accuses, sitting up straight, her fists clenching. Of _course_ they knew. She had been _stupid_ to think only Anya was watching her—that only Anya needed to be avoided. “Why keep silent, Gustus? Why not say something?”

“Because you must learn. This is a lesson for you, Lexa.”

“I will _not_ do it. They have done nothing wrong.” Gustus frowns, clearly no longer willing to be patient with her.

“They broke the Commander’s laws. And they hurt you.”

“But the Commander isn’t right about everything. And getting hurt was my own fault.”

“No, she isn’t. But she is your Commander, and you must sacrifice everything for her,” he says kindly, and though he eyes her injuries, he does not comment further on it. Lexa turns away, her eyes filling with hot tears.

“ _Why?_ ” Gustus wipes her tears away with his thumb, looking more like her father than her real father ever did. He smiles gently.

“Because she sacrifices everything for her people. And you must learn to do the same, child.”

(Much later, after she tells the Commander where to find Eve and Ric’s music shop, she gets a curt nod of approval that does nothing to quell the feelings of guilt and shame that broil in her veins).

(Much later, when she is crying herself to sleep, knowing Costia will never forgive her for this, she understands what Gustus really meant: She must learn to bear this sort of pain).


	4. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And if I told you that you could leave, that I would understand and even accept such a decision, would you?” This is a test—everything is a test—yet somehow, Lexa wonders if this is also an actual offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS! With Lexa coming back for season three (AHHHH) and grounder culture becoming a big deal, it's occurred to me that I have to finish this quickly. You know, before it's totally AU. Anyway, sorry for how long it took and hope you like this chapter!

Lexa grins proudly when her knife embeds itself firmly at the very center of the target. From behind her, Anya lets out a snort.

“Again.”

“What do you mean? It was _perfect_.” Anya walks up to her, still nearly a head taller (though Lexa had grown quite a bit and was anxiously waiting for the day she would be taller than her mentor), and narrows her eyes threateningly.

“Your wrist flicks too far to the right. It is bad form.”

“My form is excellent.”

“It is weak. Had that target been a warrior, he would have lived to see you die.” Lexa growls, stalks over to the target, and notices with increasing frustration that Anya is correct: the knife is slightly to the right of the center circle. “How does being wrong make you feel, little _heda_?” Anya calls out, laughing when Lexa pulls the knife out with more force than strictly necessary and heads back towards her mentor.

“It is not _fair_. I’ve practiced for _weeks_.”

“A warrior—”

“—yes, yes, I know,” Lexa interrupts, shaking her head. “A warrior survives only as long as they practice.” Anya smirks, and Lexa grumbles under her breath once more.

“You seem frustrated, Lexa,” she teases, taking the knife from her and throwing it easily at the target. Neither one of them bother to check if it hits the center target—they already know it has.

“You would be too,” Lexa mumbles, wiping the beads of sweat from her brow with her sleeve, and action that makes Anya frown disapprovingly (“As _heda_ , you are a warrior, but you are also the leader—it is important to act in certain ways,” she has often said, correcting Lexa’s behavior almost continuously). “Must I go tonight?”

“Yes, _heda_ has asked for you.”

“She has _ordered_ me. Besides, this can only mean bad news.” She looks away from Anya, refusing to let her see the fear she knows must shine in her eyes. “ _Heda_ only eats dinner with me when something bad has happened.”

“It is an honor.”

“An honor I could live without.” She braces herself for Anya’s reprimand, but it does not come. Instead, her mentor steps closer, bending slightly so that she is looking Lexa in the eyes, refusing to let her hide her fear.

“You are still angry at _heda_. But it has been months.”

“A few months doesn’t make betrayal any better.” Anya snorts, rolls her eyes, and straightens.

“The girl betrayed her people. She got off lightly. Had it been up to me, she would have been punished.”

“No, instead _I_ am punished. She is my friend.”

“ _Was_. You are forbidden from seeing her again.” Anya’s eyes narrow, as if she can sense the bubble of resistance forming in Lexa’s chest. “She will become a second in less than a year. Perhaps, by then, the Commander will be lenient and allow her to train with us.”

“But—”

“Enough.” Lexa falls silent immediately, hanging her head, knowing she has pushed too far. “The pain will pass, Lexa. But you must be ruthless and power through it until it does.” Lexa looks up in shock, the words enough to pull her out of her shame for being so weak.

“You have said that before, Anya. But I’m old enough to know it is a lie.” Anya gently taps the back of her head, the gesture familiar and making Lexa’s chest ache for the days she was able to trust Anya implicitly.

“I know, my little _heda_ to be. I know,” she says softly. Then, as if she just registered her own words, she taps Lexa on the head again. “Now go. Bathe and get dressed for your dinner. Remember—”

“—yes, yes, Anya, I know. The Commander spending time with me is a great honor and I should act accordingly.” Anya grins, but shakes her head.

“Remember to act interested when _heda_ mentions her flowers.” Lexa laughs, her spirits lifted, and rushes off, unwilling to be late.

* * *

Normally, she eats her meals with the other warriors. She and Anya grab a plate and their food, then settle down, laughing and talking amongst the men and women who were willing to lay down their lives for their Commander, for their people.

Eating with the Commander, however, is a silent affair.

She sits at the end of the table, chewing absently, watching the Commander turn the page of her book with one hand, the other holding a fork which hovers over her plate, almost like she has forgotten she was eating in the first place. Lexa knows every expression the Commander is capable of—she has seen her angry, happy, frustrated, even afraid, but the calm and collected look she is sporting now is the rarest. (It is also the most dangerous).

“You are now the same age I was when I became Commander,” she suddenly says, snapping her book shut and setting it aside. Lexa stops eating immediately, knowing they have finally gotten to the point where the dinner would be explained—the bad news given.

“Yes, _heda_.”

“Tell me, Lexa. Do you understand what it means to be the Commander?”

“Gustus says it is a sacrifice and Anya says it is an honor.”

“But you?” Lexa swallows, but refuses to break eye contact. She sits a little straighter in her seat, her fingers twitching against her fork.

“It is my duty.” Lexa watches as the Commander’s expression shifts, and she is shocked to see that it is a look she does not recognize. It is not pity or sorrow or even the regret she so often sports when forced to punish dissenters.

“Do you want to be Commander, Lexa? Speak true.” Lexa bites her lip, but answers honestly.

“No.”

“And if I told you that you could leave, that I would understand and even accept such a decision, would you?” This is a test—everything is a test—yet somehow, Lexa wonders if this is also an actual offer. A legitimate chance to escape a life forced on her, a life full of honor and wrought with pain. She thinks of Costia, Anya, and Gustus, for the first time uncertain. She knows what _she_ wants, what she has wanted all along (to be free from the burden that is _heda_ , to be a farmer like her father, to help people live rather than order them to die). She wants a life that would make her mother proud. But as Lexa stares into the grey eyes of the Commander, she realizes her mother is dead. Her mother is dead, and it was _heda_ who raised her—who taught her to read and write, to fight, who gave her a home and soothed her fears. Lexa stares at the Commander, unsure when she began owing the woman _so much_ , when being dragged away from home to fulfill a duty became her responsibility (because that is what it is, a responsibility. To _heda_ , to their people, to all those who spent so much time preparing her for the role she must play one day).

Lexa stares at the Commander and pushes away all her thoughts of running away, of escaping this life (for she is allowed to dream, but knows better than to hope).

“No, _heda_ ,” she answers after a long minute of silence. “I would not.” The look on the Commander’s face—the one Lexa does not recognize—remains etched into her expression as she shakes her head. It was a test, Lexa knows, but she wonders if it was a test the Commander hoped she would fail.

“Very well.” She stands abruptly, walking over to Lexa’s side of the table and leaning next to her, slowly recreating her normal mask—her normal aloof expression. “There are reports that the Ice Nation and Desert Clan are having some sort of dispute to our northwest. I set out tomorrow to ensure that it does not spill into our lands.”

“The Ice Nation has always been mostly peaceful, _heda_.”

“Yes, but their Queen is ailing, and it seems that her daughter is slowly taking charge.” Her mouth twists in disgust. “She is a fool.”

“Will I be coming with you, _heda_?” To Lexa’s ultimate surprise, the Commander shakes her head.

“No. You will stay here in Polis, and you will be in charge while I am gone.” Lexa is silent so long that the Commander lets out a soft chuckle, smiling for the first time since the dinner began. “This is an honor, Lexa. An unheard of honor. No other Commander would be willing to do this.” She nods, knowing exactly why no other Commander would be willing to do such a thing. Choosing the next _heda_ is a difficult process, and in the past, was a bloody and violent affair. Often, the child chosen to become the next _heda_ would not even be told until it was time for the Conclave (a facet of becoming Commander that Lexa is frustratingly unknowledgeable about). It was a measure of the trust between them that _heda_ would willingly relinquish her command—it said that she believed Lexa would give it back, just as willingly.

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am of you,” the Commander says with a nod. “You will be fine, child. Do not worry.” Lexa stares at her for a moment, but then looks down, somehow unable to meet the Commander’s eyes. She wonders if _heda_ is aware of how big a mistake this is, she wonders if _heda_ knows she will fail to meet any expectations they have of her _,_ she wonders if that is what they are waiting for: for her to fail. Lexa swallows, her heart beating erratically, fear being pumped through her veins at a ridiculous pace.

“Please be careful, _heda_ ,” she mumbles, her eyes on her mostly full plate, wanting desperately to control the fear she knows she cannot hide from her Commander (because just as she knows _heda_ , _heda_ knows her).

“Having feelings does not make you weak, Lexa,” the Commander says softly, breaking Lexa’s concentration, her futile attempts to keep her fear in check, to calm her racing heart and frenzied emotions. “Succumbing to them, allowing them to rule your actions, _that_ makes you weak.”

“Is that why you sent Costia away?” The Commander chuckles, shocking Lexa enough that she looks up.  

“Anya told me you were still upset about that.” Lexa is unsurprised that her mentor kept the Commander updated—she expected nothing less. “No, child. I sent her away because she distracted you from your studies. She will be back to become a second, do not worry.” Lexa studies the Commander for a second, trying to discern whether or not her words are sincere. This just makes the Commander chuckle again. “I see you take Anya’s advice not to trust anyone very seriously. Good.”

“But you trust me, _heda_. Why?”

“You are the rain after a drought, Lexa. You are my successor. You are—” She stops, shakes her head, and then smiles benignly. Lexa is not fooled for a second.

“I am what?”

“You are trustworthy,” she answers, a smile still on her face, and Lexa knows that that is not what she had been about to say. “There is no one I trust more than you.” Lexa has no idea how to respond, so instead she ignores all of Anya’s teachings—ignores all the lessons drilled into her mind—and she stands just as abruptly as the Commander, rushing to her and wrapping her arms around the older woman’s waist. For a second, the Commander is frozen, but then she relaxes, one hand moving to rest on top of Lexa’s head, the other rubbing a comforting circle on her back. “Are you all right?” she asks, her voice unnaturally soft and thick. But Lexa does not dare pull away to see the Commander’s expression

“I know I am being weak,” Lexa says, finally allowing the fear to overcome her, hiding this weakness by burying her face in the Commander’s midriff. “But for now, for right now, can I be weak?”

“Oh, Lexa.” She pulls away slightly, enough to look down at Lexa, her eyes watery. “You need not hide from me. I know you are anything but weak.”

* * *

Lexa’s first real test as the interim Commander comes three days after _heda_ leaves.

“The dispute is over farmland, Lexa,” Gustus explains to her, his arms crossed over his chest, amusement flickering in his eyes as he speaks. Lexa shifts in her seat—in the large one meant only for the Commander—and for the hundredth time wishes she did not have to do this. “The last time _heda_ left, she had me settle these matters. So I will be here with you.”

“I just listen and decide?” Lexa asks softly. Gustus chuckles and moves over so that he is standing to her right.

“You will be fine, Lexa. I have faith in you.” Lexa nearly rolls her eyes. Faith was not helpful—she needs Gustus to _help_ her, not have _faith_ in her.

“Will you step in?”

“You are acting as _heda_.”

“Is that a no?”

“Lexa,” Gustus says softly, leaning down to meet her eyes directly, concern flitting over his face for a moment before he is able to mask his feelings. “If you do not have faith in yourself, how will you ever convince your people to have faith in you?”

“They have no choice. I was chosen as the _heda_.” He studies her for a moment and then reaches out to rest his hand on the top of her head. Lexa closes her eyes at the comforting gesture, knowing full well that he is merely trying to put her at ease—because if anyone would know what she really means, it would be Gustus.

“It is only a dispute over farmland, Lexa,” he says. Lexa opens her eyes and takes a deep breath, nodding curtly. With one final smile, Gustus steps back, heading over to the large double doors, opening them with a flourish that is for her benefit.

The two farmers that hesitantly shuffle forward are young, most likely no older than Anya or the Commander. One is large and muscular (much like Gustus), and Lexa wonders why he was not chosen to be a warrior. The other man is thin and wiry, rubbing his palms together compulsively, his head looking a little too large for his body. This man, Lexa decides, is perfectly suitable for farming. (Anya has taught her how the sorting is done, how each child is chosen for a specific group. It is to ensure their survival—it is to ensure everyone contributes to their people—and it has been done the same way for as long as anyone can remember). When Gustus is standing to her right once more, Lexa swallows and fixes her gaze on the smaller man.

“ _Ron ai ridiyo op,_ ” Lexa says, sitting straight and trying her best to imitate the Commander.

When the man swallows nervously, she supposes she has been successful.

* * *

Every few weeks, the Commander sends her a letter. Sometimes, it is pages long, going in depth about the situation at their borders, with long digressions about flora she has seen, interesting people she has spoken to. Other times, the letter is short, with only simple reminders:

 _As_ heda _you have a duty to protect your people, Lexa._  

_Do not forget to tend to my flowers._

_The weather is becoming cooler, bundle up._

Lexa hoards the letters, looks forward to them like nothing else, and finds herself reading them so often that she has entire passages memorized. The months without the Commander have been more difficult that she would ever have imagined, and more and more she feels utter _gratitude_ that the complete weight of being _heda_ has not yet settled on her shoulders. The letters provide a sense of comfort that Anya and Gustus are simply unable to provide: as long as the Commander sends letters, she is still alive—and Lexa _needs_ and _wants_ her to stay alive as long as possible. (If someone were to ask her how she felt about the _heda_ , she would say that she respects the Commander, that she trusts the older woman, that _heda_ is her teacher and mentor. But deep down, she knows it is far more than that, and she knows that that is not something she can voice aloud).

She knows this is weakness. She knows that the Commander is not her mother. Yet despite that, sometimes Lexa wishes she was. (Her real mother—the mother who left her, who lied to her, the one who used to hold her, who rocked her to sleep—is nothing more than a fading memory, a glimpse of a life she no longer remembers).

Anya, who has seen the bundle of letters by her bedside, never mentions them or asks what the Commander writes, and Lexa never feels any obligation to tell her. In fact, it is not until _heda_ asks about how Costia is faring now that she is back in Polis that Lexa even mentions the letters to her mentor.

“ _Heda_ wrote that Costia is back,” Lexa says one afternoon after training, sweating despite the chill in the air. She remembers a time when she could barely lift her sword arm after only an hour of such exercises, and she is fiercely proud of the fact that she is barely out of breath today. Anya raises an eyebrow and lowers her weapon.

“She has been back for a month now. She is a second.”

“You’ve kept her from me?” She tries to keep the accusing tone out of her voice, but she knows she has been mostly unsuccessful because Anya snorts, though not unkindly.

“Oh, child,” she says, shaking her head. “I have better things to do than keep your friend from you.”

“Then why…” she trails off, knowing how she sounds and hating the amused look on Anya’s face. “Let’s go again.” She raises her sword and shifts into the fighting stance Anya taught her so long ago (arms raised, shoulders set, legs wide apart and bent at the knees, facing her opponent at an angle so as to not leave herself open).

“You wish to fight out your feelings?” she asks, raising her eyebrows even further, looking far more than just a little amused—it rankles at Lexa that her mentor is _laughing_ at her, and she very nearly growls.

“Tired already, Anya?”

“You grow more impertinent every year,” Anya mutters, shaking her head in mock exasperation. “I suppose I must bruise that overblown ego of yours. To make you more tolerable, of course.”

“Of course.” Lexa does not bother to wait for a response; she attacks, swinging her sword in a wide arc, the vibrations of the weapon rattling her bones when Anya parries her attack with ease. With a frustrated huff, Lexa attacks again, and once more, Anya blocks her easily.

“You’re predictable when angry, Lexa. Brute force will never get you anywhere.” Ignoring her mentor, Lexa swings again, yet to her surprise, instead of parrying her blow, Anya steps aside. Lexa stumbles forward only briefly, but that second of imbalance is all Anya needs to come up behind her and elbow her hard in the side. Lexa drops to the ground, unable to breathe, but Anya is not done; she steps on Lexa’s fingers, crushing them until she releases her sword, and then kicks the weapon out of reach. “You make stupid mistakes when angry, and that will cost you your life, my little _heda_ to be.” She crouches down and looks Lexa in the eye, pointedly ignoring the angry tears rolling down her cheeks. “Do you wish to go again?”

“Yes.”

“Then stand.” Lexa gets to her feet, wiping her cheeks hurriedly and picking up her sword without bothering to check the state of her fingers (they ache and Lexa knows she will need them bandaged later, but she does not care). “Straighten your stance—no, Lexa, your arms must be higher or you leave yourself open…yes, better. Now, attack.” Lexa does not need to be told twice. She rushes forward, but instead of swinging from above, she ducks—using her height to her advantage—and takes a jab, surprising Anya enough to force her to break her stance and take several steps back. Without pausing, Lexa advances on her mentor, parrying blow after blow, before pivoting on one foot, ducking below Anya’s sword arm, and ramming the butt of her sword into her mentor’s stomach. Anya lets out a surprised grunt and waves her hand to indicate surrender, a grin on her face. “Very well done,” she says once she has caught her breath, a grin still on her face. “Now, do you wish to talk about what bothers you?”

“She hasn’t forgiven me, Anya. For what I did.” Anya’s grin disappears, but her eyes are still amused. With a sigh, she collapses onto the ground, resting on her hands and staring up at the cloudy sky.

“You have done nothing wrong.”

“Of course I did.”

“Your duty is to your Commander. Not to Costia,” Anya says, shaking her head before laying back completely. She closes her eyes and rubs the spot Lexa hit idly. “Either the girl will understand that or she won’t. Either way, you did what was right.”

“This is what you meant, isn’t it? When you said I had no time for friends. You meant I would never _have_ any friends.” Anya cracks one eye open, no longer amused. If anything, she is _sad_.

“Yes, this is what I meant.” Something must flit over Lexa’s face because Anya sits up, concerned. “Lexa—”

“It is all right,” Lexa interrupts, flexing her bruised fingers, only slightly alarmed to find that they are swollen and red. “I have you, Gustus, and the Commander. I do not need anyone else.” She forces out a chuckle when Anya continues to stare at her in concern. “Except perhaps a healer,” she jokes, indicating her hand, relieved when Anya cracks a small grin.

“Yes, yes, go. Training is over for today.”

* * *

 “No, no, put that away. I only need bandages.” The healer releases Lexa’s hand and heads over to the boy training under him, shaking his head irritably. “I miss Costia so,” the healer mumbles, smacking the boy on the head and pointing out the bandages. “She talked too much but at least she knew where everything was.”

“You know Costia?” Lexa asks, watching the healer carefully as he walks back to her, bandages in hand.

“Of course I know her. She is my daughter.” Lexa studies him, only then noting the similarities. Costia has his kind brown eyes, the same crooked grin. The very thought nearly brings a smile to Lexa’s face. “She spoke often of you, of how you would be a great _heda_.”

“I don’t think she feels that way anymore.” The healer shrugs and wraps her hand carefully, tying it off and then looking at her with a grin.

“Perhaps. But perhaps you should ask her just to make sure.” Lexa opens her mouth to let him know that that was not possible—was not possible because Costia had been back for a month and had not come to see her—when she becomes aware that someone has just entered the healer’s station. She stares at the newcomer, speechless, and is only vaguely mindful of the fact that the healer and his second have slipped away.

“Costia.”

“Lexa.” There are a million things she wants to say. A million things, yet she knows she cannot say any of them. So rather than speak, she sits still, watching and studying Costia, waiting for her to say something. “I should have known better,” she says, avoiding Lexa’s eyes. “I should have known better than to think you would choose Eve and Ric over _heda_.” Lexa swallows, hearing the tacit portion of Costia’s comment: _I should have known better than to think you would choose me_.

“Costia—”

“I am not upset, Lexa. I understand. In fact, I am sorry. For putting you in that position in the first place. It will not happen again.” Lexa closes her eyes briefly before she slides off the cot she is sitting on and walks past Costia on her way to the exit, their shoulders brushing just a tad. “Are you not going to say anything?” Costia asks as Lexa takes one step out the door. She pauses just briefly, frantically quelling the urge to say even _one_ of the million things swirling in her mind. To tell Costia how much she missed her, how _sorry_ she was, how she wished they could go back to how things were, how she longed for the days they held hands and ran through the market’s streets. But with a sigh and an ache in her chest, Lexa continues on her way.

_You have no time for friends. You will never have any friends._


	5. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are the rain after a drought, Lexa.” She gestures to the garden once more. “These flowers bloom for you.” With one last sad smile, she turns and is gone before Lexa can say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This incredibly quick update is dedicated to lexabean. Thank you so much to everyone who reads, comments, kudos, etc. It means so much to me that you guys are reading this story of mine.

**Twelve**

 

Anya wakes her up by roughly shaking her shoulder, pulling lightly on her hair.

“Get up, my little _heda_ to be, there’s something I need to show you.” Lexa yawns, annoyed to have been woken up in the middle of the night, but does as she is told. She gets to her feet, pulls on her boots, and follows Anya out into the Commander’s garden.

“You are entering your twelfth year, Lexa,” Anya says lightly, eyeing Lexa’s rumpled bedclothes with amusement. “This is the age our children enter adulthood and become seconds. Become warriors.” Lexa bites back a yawn and nods.

“I know, Anya. But I am already a second.” Anya squeezes her shoulder and bends slightly.

“Will you let me finish?” she asks, eyeing Lexa sternly. Lexa, however, yawns again, well-versed in reading her mentor’s mood.

“Could this have waited until morning?”

“You are an ungrateful child,” Anya chides, shaking her head as she pulls out a wrapped parcel and hands it to Lexa with a roll of her eyes. “To think I went through all the trouble of getting this for you.”

“What is it?” Lexa asks, taking the parcel and eying Anya curiously, finally wide-awake.

“Open it.” She wants to argue (Gustus has told her that there will always be attempts on her life and she should never accept things from others) but instead she sighs. Slowly, she unwraps the bundle, her eyes widening when she sees what it is.

“You _stole_ this, didn’t you?” Lexa mutters, looking up at Anya. “That’s why we are here, in the middle of the night. We’re _hiding_.”

“Other seconds get it. Why shouldn’t you?” Anya says flatly, ignoring Lexa’s comment entirely, straightening and crossing her arms over her chest. “I only did what was fair.” Lexa smiles, bringing the bundle to her nose and inhaling deeply.

“Thank you, Anya,” she says fervently, still grinning stupidly. Every year, she has watched children become seconds, watched them receive the rarest and most precious gift of all: honeycakes. But now, she has her own generous portion, and she cannot help but inhale deeply once more, taking in the sweet smell wafting from the cake. “Can we share?” She thinks she may have honestly surprised her mentor for the first time, because Anya is staring at her as if she had never seen something quite so strange. On any other day, at any other moment, Lexa would have tried to figure out what her mentor was thinking, but with the cake in her hands and the thought of going back to sleep in the forefront of her mind, she finds she just does not care.

“It is yours, Lexa,” Anya says softly, but Lexa is no longer listening. She splits the cake with her fingers, and hands Anya a half. For a moment, she thinks Anya will just walk away, refuse to take the cake, but then she laughs and accepts the sweet. They settle on the ground, staring up at the stars, and Lexa takes her time eating her gift, licking her fingers clean, savoring the sweet taste of the honey. “This is why,” Anya says many minutes later, breaking the long silence.

“Why what?”

“Why the Spirit chose you.” Lexa stares at Anya curiously, not understanding what her mentor means. She decides not to ask.

* * *

When the Commander returns, things begin to change quickly. More and more, Anya and Gustus are called away to war meetings that Lexa is not allowed to attend. Warriors come and go from Polis at a rate Lexa is unfamiliar with. Rumors fly within the city itself, rumors of another war (the Ice Queen is dead, they cry, dead at the Commander’s hands, but when Lexa asks _heda_ about it, she merely shakes her head and refuses to answer). Even worse is the pressure suddenly placed on Lexa’s shoulders. Gone is the Anya who stole sweets for her just weeks ago—Anya pushes Lexa faster and further than ever, leaving her exhausted and breathless.

The other seconds do not fare much better. Lexa sees more of them, trains with them, and there are entire weeks during which she is in charge of their training (because she has been doing this for five years longer, she is marked as _different_ by the red sash she wears, and the other seconds actually listen to her). But though more responsibility is thrust at her, Lexa has no idea what has happened to throw everything into such chaos.

“I hear the Desert Clan asked _heda_ for aid, and when she refused, they declared war on us as well,” one of the seconds, a girl named Frieda, says. Costia scoffs, rolling her eyes as she rubs her wrist, where Glen (a big, burly boy with light hair) accidentally hit her with his staff. They are the only three who stayed behind with Lexa (she spars with Anya for an hour each day now, immediately after training with the seconds is over).

“If they needed aid it means they couldn’t even manage their war with the Ice Nation. It must be something else.”

“And how would _you_ know, Costia?” Frieda demands, crossing her arms over her chest. Lexa watches as Costia draws herself up to her full height—an unintimidating height at that—and glares at Frieda.

“What makes _you_ so sure that you’re right?” Their standoff continues, and from beside her, Glen lets out an awkward chuckle.

“You know, don’t you Lexa?” he asks, his unnatural light hair looking practically white in the sunlight. “You know what is happening.” He says it with such conviction, such belief, that Lexa cannot bear to be honest. Instead of answering, she looks away, leaving Glen to come to his own conclusions. “I knew it!” he says, laughing and drawing Costia and Frieda’s attention. “Will you tell us, Lexa? Tell us what happened?” She blinks, uncomfortable with the sudden attention she is getting. The other seconds listen to her, obey her, but they also do not like her (they incline their heads because they know they must, not because they wish to). But Glen, Frieda, and Costia seem to genuinely respect her, _like_ her even, and though Lexa knows that that is a dangerous thought—“You’re not here to be liked,” Gustus once said, “you’re here to lead, to be in charge”—she cannot help it. For the first time, Lexa finds herself craving the approval of someone other than the Commander.

“I’m sorry, Glen,” she says finally, shaking her head. Somehow, however, rather than quell their excitement, her comment burgeons it.

“I promise not to tell anyone, Lexa,” Frieda says, walking over to Lexa and ignoring Costia’s annoyed huff. “We’re all trustworthy.” She gestures offhandedly to herself and the others, causing Costia to huff again.

“I don’t know why you bother asking. Lexa is the _heda_ to be, she won’t say a word if the Commander told her not to,” Costia mutters, bitterness lacing her tone.

“Have you ever considered that the problem was _you_ , Costia?” Frieda snaps. Before Costia can reply, Lexa holds up a hand, shaking her head.

“Costia is right,” she says, not looking at the girl she once considered her friend. Since walking away from her, they have not really spoken, only interacting when absolutely necessary during training. (Lexa tells herself it is because she has learned from her past mistakes, because she is above this concept of ‘friendship,’ but the sad truth is that she cannot bear to meet Costia’s eyes, cannot stomach the look of disdain and disappointment she is sure to see). “The Commander has her reasons for keeping this quiet.” Frieda snorts, but she nods in acceptance.

“I wish she would explain her reasons,” Glen murmurs, almost petulantly, and Lexa schools her expression before any of them notice that she wishes the same thing.

(Many things have changed since the Commander has returned, but none of them hurt as much as the distance that has sprung between them). 

* * *

She finds the Commander in her garden, her fingers running over the petals of a flower. There is a strange expression on her face, almost wistful, and Lexa suddenly regrets coming to find her.

“Was there something you needed?” the Commander asks, leaning forward to take in the scent of the flower (Lexa knows from experience that the aroma is strong, burning the nostrils, but _heda_ seems unaffected).

“Have I upset you, _heda_?” Lexa asks quickly, not wanting to give her nerves time to fail her. The Commander straightens and clasps her hands together in front of her, her head tilting slightly to the side. She is wearing warpaint (she is always wearing warpaint these days), and for whatever reason, Lexa finds herself thinking that this is not the same Commander who left so many months ago.

“Do you know why this garden exists?” she asks, ignoring Lexa’s question. She takes a step forward, and it takes all of Lexa’s will to not retreat.

“No.” The Commander nods, as if she expected this answer.

“The story is that the first Commander was covered in so much of her enemies’ blood that no amount of washing could make the stench go away.” Lexa swallows, her eyes flickering down to the Commander’s clasped hands for a moment, imagining them covered in blood—imagining how she thought _heda_ must see them. “Oh no, Lexa. Not just her hands,” she says, clearly reading Lexa’s mind. “Head to toe, she _swam_ in the blood of the people she slew.”

“What happened?”

“Her people, knowing that the blood she shed was for their well-being, planted her a garden, filling it with the most fragrant flowers they could find.” She points to a small white flower in the corner, and Lexa takes the hint. She steps over and bends down, taking a deep breath through her nose. The scent is sweet, almost too sweet, and Lexa nearly gags. “Because she could not avoid the bloodshed, her people decided to cover it up. To overwhelm the stench of blood with the aroma of beauty.” She looks at all the flowers and shakes her head. “Do you know what the problem is, Lexa?”

“No.” The Commander nods again, as if she expected this as well. She gestures wildly to the garden, the wistful expression on her face giving way to an almost desperate one—her eyes taking on a terrified gleam, the warpaint serving as a backdrop of darkness, making her look like she wanted nothing more than to plunge into the depths.

“One cannot stem the current of a river with a piece of paper, Lexa,” she says, shaking her head, focusing her eyes on Lexa for the first time. “Do you understand? Though her people tried to mask it with flowers and beauty, the truth is that the Commander still _reeked_ of the lives she tore apart.” Lexa stares at the Commander for a long moment and then tentatively reaches out, taking one of the older woman’s hands and squeezing it gently.

“I smell nothing, _heda_ ,” Lexa mutters, and to her ultimate shock, she is met with laughter rather than a reprimand.

“Because you are not yet soaked in the blood of your enemies, child,” she says, turning away from Lexa, roughly pulling her hand away.

“Is this why you spend so much time in the garden?” Lexa asks, feeling somewhat bold. “Because you want to mask the smell?” The Commander does not answer. She steps further away from Lexa and points to a vine, growing unchecked on the walls surrounding the garden, clusters of small purple flowers hanging from it.

“Our people call it the hanging vine,” the Commander says, gesturing for Lexa to step closer. “It grows on trees, the walls of huts and homes, on our walls outside of Polis. But it is most commonly found near the village where I grew up.” Lexa remains silent, barely daring to breathe, watching as a faraway look appears on the Commander’s face. “Some of my earliest memories are of a spring breeze wafting the scent of this flower through the village. I remember how my mother refused to call it a hanging vine, because she claimed such a beautiful flower deserved a beautiful name.” The Commander smiles softly and turns to look down at Lexa, the faraway look in her eyes gone, along with the desperate desire to fall away. She looks like herself again. “I spend so much time in the garden because it reminds me of home.” She smiles bitterly. “My only wish is to be buried in my village after my fight is finally over, among all those flowers.”

“Why can’t you?” The Commander places a hand on Lexa’s shoulder, squeezing it briefly.

“Even in death, _heda_ belongs to her people, Lexa.” She turns to leave when Lexa gathers her courage once more.

“Have I upset you, _heda_?” she asks again, watching carefully as the Commander’s back stiffens. After a second, she turns around to give Lexa a sad smile.

“You are the rain after a drought, Lexa.” She gestures to the garden once more. “These flowers bloom for you.” With one last sad smile, she turns and is gone before Lexa can say another word.

(In the end, it is Gustus who tells her what happened while the Commander was away. He tells her how in the middle of the night, a large group of warriors snuck into their lands from the Desert Clan, and how _heda_ had to make a quick decision. He tells her how the _Trikru_ warriors slew them all effortlessly, how the ecstasy of victory turned into horror as the sun’s rays illuminated the remnants of the battle the next morning).

(Gustus tells her how the Commander, in her haste to ensure the safety of her people, ordered her warriors to kill dozens of men, women, and children who were fleeing their war-torn lands, who were anything _but_ warriors).

(Later, when there is a strong gust of wind, Lexa thinks it carries with it not the aroma of the small purple flowers, but the scent of the blood her _heda_ has shed).

* * *

It was an accident.

Anya had given her permission to use real swords, and Costia immediately partnered up with Frieda, leaving Lexa to spar with Glen. But Glen was clumsy, as he always tended to be, took a wild swing, and the next thing Lexa knew, she was bleeding heavily from her arm, the world was growing black, and Glen was nowhere to be found.

When she wakes up, it is dark, and the Commander is sitting on a chair next to her bed, a book in her hand, a candle burning next to her, only illuminating half of her face.

“It was an accident,” Lexa says immediately. The Commander looks up, and before she can hide it, she looks _relieved_.

“How do you feel, child?” she asks, her voice gentle, far more gentle than anything Lexa has ever heard her use before (this is how Lexa knows that her injury was serious, how she is sure Glen is in trouble). She puts aside her book and shifts forward, kneeling by Lexa’s bed. “Do not move,” she chides gently as Lexa tries to sit up. The Commander takes her hand and squeezes it comfortingly. “You are weak from your injury.”

“I am fine,” Lexa mutters, shaking her head before repeating herself: “It was an accident.”

“Yes,” the Commander says, “I agree.”

“So Glen will not be punished?”

“Oh, no. He will. But not for the accident.” Lexa studies the Commander blankly, and after a moment, she lets out a sigh and returns to her chair (though she doesn’t let go of Lexa’s hand).

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Lexa insists. “It was my mistake. I should have been paying attention. He is a clumsy warrior.”

“Like I said,” the Commander says coolly, “he will not be punished for the accident itself. He is being punished for abandoning you to die. For running away.”

“He was just scared—”

“Then he is a coward and is even more deserving of punishment.” Lexa swallows, realizing that the Commander is unmovable on this, so she nods in acceptance.

“What is his punishment?” she asks.

“He abandoned the _heda_ to be to die, Lexa,” the Commander says, her voice soft, and a sense of cold dread settles into Lexa’s chest. “The punishment is severe.”

“No, no—”

“He is to die in three days,” she continues, ignoring Lexa’s protests. “And Lexa, it will be by _your_ hands.” 

* * *

“She cannot do this!” Lexa exclaims for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time, Anya rolls her eyes.

“Of course she can, she is _heda_. She can do what she likes.”

“He did nothing wrong.”

“You nearly died.”

“Because of my own carelessness!”

“He ran away, Lexa,” Anya says, frowning like she could not understand Lexa’s protests. “He left you, the _heda_ to be _,_ to die. He is a coward and he committed the highest of crimes. He _must_ be punished.”

“Then exile him! Or force him to work on the farms. Why _kill_ him?” Anya’s face hardens and she shakes her head.

“You are the rain after a drought, child,” she says. “The boy will serve as a message to anyone who would dare think about doing you harm.”

“I am _tired_ of that phrase,” Lexa hisses, tugging on her bandaged arm as she attempted to pull on her shirt. Anya steps forward to help, but at Lexa’s glare, rolls her eyes and holds her hands up in surrender. “What does it even _mean_?” But Anya just grins, not looking inclined to answer. “I will not do it,” Lexa mutters, hating that she sounds petulant. Hating that she sounds like a child. Anya lets out a mirthless laugh.

“You have no choice.”

* * *

“Have you tried arguing with the Commander?” Frieda asks the moment training is over and the other seconds have shuffled away (Lexa had merely observed, standing by idly as the others worked, her mood souring with each passing minute). “Perhaps she will be forgiving.”

“She will not speak to me,” Lexa mutters, sitting cross-legged on the ground, pulling out tufts of grass with her fingers. Frieda sits across from her, a contemplative look on her face.

“Well, then speak to one of the generals. Or to your mentor. Surely you have some influence.”

“I have no influence,” Lexa snaps, not liking Frieda’s tone. “ _Heda_ has made a decision. It is final.” Costia looks at the two of them, a frown pulling on her lips.

“But you don’t want it to happen,” she says, not meeting Lexa’s eyes, Frieda, however, has no such qualms. She stares at Lexa carefully, searching for the lie.

“You don’t want it to happen, right Lexa?” she asks. Lexa pulls out a fistful of grass, tossing it out in front of her, frustrated and scared and knowing she has no right to either of the emotions. They do not know, she reminds herself. They do not know that Glen is to die at _her_ hands.

“Of course not,” she finds herself answering honestly. Her response kindles something in Costia, because she moves suddenly, kneeling down next to them with a frenzied expression.

“Then we get him out.”

“What are you talking about?” Lexa says, close to rolling her eyes. Frieda, however, seems interested.

“Toln is on duty tonight. He always naps during his watch.”

“And how would you know this?” Lexa asks just as Frieda leans forward, motioning for Costia to continue. The two girls ignore Lexa entirely, now focused only on each other. 

“We wait until Toln is asleep, grab the keys, and help Glen escape. I can get him some supplies, like bandages, maybe even a knife.” Frieda nods.

“I can get him food. So he doesn’t have to worry about hunting for a few days.” They turn to Lexa when she lets out a snort despite herself, identical expressions of distrust on their faces (Lexa tries to ignore it, how much it hurts that they believe they can trust each other but not her—not the _heda_ to be).

“Where will he go? Have you thought of that? How will he avoid our scouts? Our men on horseback? He’ll never get very far.”

“At least he will have a fighting chance, Lexa,” Costia says sharply. “It is better than what _heda_ plans for him _._ ” Something in Lexa snaps. _They do not know_ , she tells herself. _They do not know._

“Do you _know_ what _heda_ has planned for him? Do you understand what will happen in two days?” Their distrust has turned into confusion and curiosity, but it is the false look of understanding in Costia’s eyes that spurs Lexa on (because there is _no one_ but the Commander herself who understand what Lexa must do. No one). “ _I_ am to kill him. _I_ am to end his fight.”

“Lexa…” But Costia cannot finish whatever it is she wants to say. She looks down, once again avoiding Lexa’s eyes. Even Frieda does not look her way. Lexa sits there for only a few more beats before she gets to her feet and tries her best not to run off—tries her best to coolly walk away.

It is only when she makes it back to her room that she allows herself to collapse against the door, shaking and trying to calm her racing heart by clenching and unclenching her fists, taking deep, gasping breaths. But every time her eyes fall on her grass-stained hands, she is forced to try her best not to think about how, by this time in two days, they will be stained in an entirely different way.

* * *

She can feel the Commander’s eyes on her, burning a hole into her skull, but she refuses to look up from her plate, aimlessly pushing around her food with her fork, waiting anxiously for the moment she would be allowed to leave.

“It seems that _I_ have upset _you_ ,” the Commander says, sounding slightly amused. Lexa looks up despite herself, enraged. The Commander, who has not spoken to her since telling her of Glen’s fate, _would_ choose this night—this moment—to talk to her again.

“You have asked me to kill a boy who has done nothing wrong. Of course I am upset,” she finds herself saying, unsure when this surge of courage arrived, positive that if she did not tone down the anger, she would get herself into serious trouble.

“Done nothing wrong?” the Commander repeats incredulously, putting down her fork and leaning back in her chair, her grey eyes never once wavering from Lexa’s. “Your arm is in a sling. You will not be able to train for weeks. You lost a great deal of blood.”

“It was an accident.”

“He left you to _die_.”

“He feared for his own life!”

“And _that_ is the problem, child!” she shouts, losing her patience. She stands quickly, the legs of her chair screeching against the floor as she roughly pushes it back. “You are the _heda_ to be.”

“You say that, but it has no meaning for me. I am not _heda_ , so how is my life more important than his?” This makes the Commander’s mouth snap shut and she studies Lexa curiously for a moment before letting out a soft chuckle.

“I see,” she says, nodding. “You don’t understand your own importance.”

“ _Heda_ —”

“Lexa, when I asked you what it meant to be the Commander, you said that Anya told you it was an honor, that Gustus said it was a sacrifice, and that you believed it was your duty.” Lexa stares blankly at her, hearing the unasked question in her tone, knowing exactly where she wants to go with her comment. For a wild second, Lexa wants to be difficult, wants to resist with all her might—she does not want a lesson, she wants Glen to be let go. But the Commander’s grey eyes are on her, a kind and patient look on her face, and as always, Lexa is loath to disappoint her.

“What does it mean to be the Commander, _heda_?” she asks quietly, feeling a burst of joy in her chest at the Commander’s answering smile and hating it. _You are angry with her_ , Lexa reminds herself forcefully. _She would have you kill Glen._

“Being Commander is a death sentence.” All of Lexa’s anger washes away with just six words, every ill thought she had of the Commander over the last two days replaced with nothing but _fear_ (not for herself, but for the Commander, the Commander she cannot lose, the Commander she desperately needs). “Gustus and Anya have not explained this,” she states matter-of-factly, smiling at what Lexa assumes is a stupid look on her face (but Lexa is hearing another voice in her head, the voice of her brother: _They’re preparing you to die_ , he had said, understanding the truth long before she did).

“No, _heda_.”

“Becoming _heda_ is an honor, a sacrifice, and it _is_ your duty. But more than that, becoming _heda_ means your life is no longer your own. You are expected to live for your people, and then you will die for your people.” Lexa says nothing, and the Commander smiles at her approvingly. “That is why _heda_ is so revered. Why her life is protected. It is not her own to lose, do you understand?”

“ _Heda_ belongs to her people,” Lexa mutters, looking down, feeling completely deflated.

“That is why the boy must be punished. Why _you_ must be the one to end his fight. He jeopardized the future of his people, and that is a grave crime.”

“But _heda_ , he did not _mean_ to,” Lexa protests weakly.

“I did not say it was fair. But it is _right_ , Lexa. Always remember, you belong to your people, and you must sacrifice _everything_ for them.”

* * *

She refuses to get out of bed at all the day before she is to kill Glen.

At first, Anya looks willing to drag her out if she needs to, but she has a whispered conversation with someone out in the hall, and she comes back in only to sit at the chair next to Lexa’s bed, a defeated look on her face.

“I am sorry, Lexa,” she says after a long silence. “I should not have allowed swords that day. It was my fault.”

“It was my fault for not paying attention to him. I should have known better.”

“Lexa, the pain will pass.” She does not answer right away. First, she shifts so that she is no longer hiding beneath her covers, and she faces Anya with a blank look (the blank look her mentor taught her, the one that Lexa has never really felt the need to use _on_ her).

“Will you promise me something?”

“Yes, of course.”

“No more lying. Promise me that you will stop lying.” Anya studies her for a moment and then nods.

“I promise, my _heda_ to be. I will never lie to you again.”

* * *

The night before she is to kill Glen, Lexa avoids sleep by aimlessly walking around the Commander’s house (a house _heda_ urges her to call her own, a house that has been her home since she left her village, since she left Rox, Tris, and her father—since she left her mother’s funeral pyre, burning away the last traces of the woman whose embrace and love she craves more than ever).

She comes to a stop when she sees that the door to the Commander’s study—to her expansive library—is slightly ajar, a dim light shining out into the hallway. Carefully trudging forward, Lexa moves so that she can look through the thin gap, shocked to see that the Commander is sitting in her usual chair, staring impassively at Gustus.

“—cannot understand why,” Gustus is saying, his voice sounding strange. “You say she is the rain after a drought, yet you are grooming her to be just like you.”

“She is not like me,” the Commander says flatly, but Gustus sighs, like he is disappointed.

“You brought her here, broke all sorts of traditions by explicitly choosing her as your successor, but Isolde, she still must go through the Conclave. She must still prove her worth to her people.”

“Tomorrow is a test. Should she pass, she will get through the Conclave with no issue.” Gustus leans forward on the table, bracing his weight on his hands.

“You think she will fail,” he states, shaking his head. “You are underestimating her. She will do this tomorrow, Isolde. She is strong.”

“Yes, but even the strongest of metals can become brittle and shatter when pushed too far.” She rubs her eyes, frowning deeply.

“You are _hoping_ she fails,” Gustus mutters, straightening. Lexa cannot see his expression, but she can see the Commander’s, see the look that is unfamiliar—the one she has only seen once before. It is then, for the first time, that she sees it as what it is: guilt. The Commander feels _guilty_. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because she will be the next _heda_ , and I don’t want that for her.”

“How long do you think you have before she is old enough to know you are emotionally manipulating her?”

“Now who is underestimating her?” the Commander asks, a sad smile appearing on her face. “You truly believe she has not yet caught on?”

“You are _wrong_.” The Commander’s features become dark instantaneously.

“You would do well to remember who you speak to, Gustus. I am your _heda_. Do not assume that because I forgave you for your mistakes it means nothing has changed.”

“You forgave me because you needed someone whose advice you trusted. So trust me, Isolde. Tomorrow will not break Lexa in the way you think, in the way you hope.” The Commander stands in one fluid motion, her eyes glinting dangerously.

“Lexa is not like me, Gustus. Pass or fail tomorrow, she is still the rain after a drought.”

“How?”

“Because she argued on the boy’s behalf.” Lexa has heard enough. She slips away, her heart pounding in her chest, gripped by fear. She is the rain after a drought, and for the first time, she thinks she knows exactly what that means.

* * *

He is tied to a wooden post, a terrified expression on his face. The other seconds mutter to one another, but Lexa only has eyes for her Commander (her Commander, who is donning her full war gear, with her shoulder brace and warpaint, who secretly hopes that Lexa cannot do what she is supposed to do).

“Are you ready?” she asks Lexa quietly. With a clenched jaw, Lexa nods. There is utter silence as Lexa and the Commander walk over to face Glen (Glen, who has tears streaming down his cheeks because he is only a boy, only a boy who has done nothing wrong but somehow did _everything_ wrong, a boy who does not deserve this fate). He does not say a word as she stares at him, he does not even acknowledge that there was once a time they sat together and laughed and talked and trained (but then, Lexa is not acknowledging such times either).

“ _Ste yuj_ ,” Gustus mutters in Lexa’s ear as he hands her a sword. It is ceremonial, never used in battle, only to end the fight of those who have broken their laws. Out of the corner of her eye, Lexa can see Frieda and Costia, standing side by side, identical expressions of sorrow on their faces.

She swallows and focuses only on Glen.

She does not want to do this. _You are the rain after a drought_. She would never choose to do this. _You are the_ heda _to be_. This is a test she wants nothing more than to fail. Heda _belongs to her people_.

(Her people need her, her people need her, _her people need her_ ).

Glen closes his eyes as Lexa raises the sword. Her hands shake, there are tears in her eyes, blurring her vision, but she steps forward, sure footed, and runs Glen through. (He only makes a soft gasp as the blade enters his chest, his head falling forward as his last breath leaves him, and Lexa’s hands are still shaking as she removes the sword).

She stands there, listening to the total silence, relishing the soft breeze and the sweet scent of the flowers from the hanging vine.

(The breeze also carries with it the stench of blood, the stench that comes from _her_ hands, but she chooses to ignore it).   

* * *

She rocks back and forth, her arms wrapped around herself in a desperate attempt to imitate a feeling of security and safety she had when her mother held her. It is not working, she knows it is not working, because it is becoming harder and harder to breathe, tears burn her eyes (though she still refuses to let them fall), and there is an ache somewhere deep in her chest—an ache she does not know how to soothe.

A sharp rap at her door shocks her enough that she stills.

“Lexa, let me in.” Anya promised she would keep everyone away, Anya promised that Lexa could be alone for the rest of the night. But for whatever reason, Costia is at her door.

“I wish to be alone.”

“ _Heda_ asked me to come see you.” With a grunt—realizing _heda’s_ orders without actually needing any orders—Lexa gets to her feet shakily and opens the door for Costia, retreating into the corner of her room and not meeting the girl’s eyes. “Lexa—”

“I have no time for friends,” Lexa snaps, not letting her speak. “I have no time for friends. It is best if you just stayed away from me.”

“Why would you think that?” she asks patiently, taking a tentative step forward, as if testing the waters with a wild animal (and Lexa wonders if that is an apt comparison—if she is a wild animal, destined to lose all those who have the misfortune to stray across her path).

“I belong to my people,” she states, meeting Costia’s eyes, surprised by the tears, by the distress written all over her face. She moves further forward, and Lexa does not turn away. “I belong to my people, so I have no time for friends.”

“You belong to your people, Lexa,” she says softly, holding out her arms, a wordless offer. “Let me belong to you.” Lexa stares at Costia unblinkingly, torn. She knows what she is expected to do (push her away, push her away, _push her away_ ), but Glen’s blood still soaks her hands—will _always_ soak her hands—and she cannot bear to lose someone else so soon (that is, after all, what would happen should she push Costia away now, she would lose her forever, because she can tell—from the tears in Costia’s eyes, the distress written all over her face—that this is the last time she will offer an olive branch). So instead of immediately turning Costia down, Lexa lets her take the final few steps forward and leans into her, accepting her embrace. The feeling of her arms wrapping around her breaks down the last of her resistance. It is at that moment that Lexa allows herself to collapse, to accept the comfort she does not feel she deserves—not from Costia, not from anyone.

It is at the moment, as Costia hugs her, holding her tightly and not saying a word as sobs finally break free and tears roll down her cheeks, the ache in her chest being soothed by Costia’s warmth—as this girl she turned her back on takes her back with open arms—that Lexa comes to an understanding: If she is the rain after a drought, then Costia is the first ray of sunshine after a storm.

 

 


	6. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I said it is not our way, Lexa. Do you understand?” Lexa blinks at the harsh tone, but otherwise does not react. She nods in acceptance and the Commander looks around the table. “We will begin planning our war tomorrow. When I am done, the new Ice Queen will regret the day she dared think of invading Trigedakru lands.”

**Thirteen**

She sees Glen.

His unnaturally light hair looks colorless under the sun’s glaring rays. His wrists are tied above his head, and tears roll unchecked down his cheeks. Beside him stands the Commander, her warpaint making her look terrifying, the shoulder guard an indication that she is _only_ the _heda_ at the moment.

“Can you do it, Lexa?” she asks. “Can you kill him? Will you be the rain after a drought?” Lexa’s hands shake, and she is suddenly worried that she will not be able to retain her grip on the weapon.

“Please, _heda_ ,” Lexa says helplessly, falling to her knees (they are alone, except for Glen. There is no one to witness her weakness, no one to see Lexa beg). “Please spare him.”

“Is that your choice?”

“Yes, yes it is.” The Commander stares at her impassively, her grey eyes glittering with disappointment, warpaint mixed with the bright red of blood.

“Very well. Then you will take his place. _Jus drein jus daun_ , Lexa. Even if it is _your_ blood.” Suddenly, Lexa is the one tied to the pole, her wrists raw and aching against the tough rope. In front of her, the Commander raises the ceremonial sword. “ _Ste yuj_ , _goufa_.” Lexa closes her eyes, preparing herself for the blow…

…but it never comes.

She opens her eyes, and she is in a village, similar to where she grew up. It must have rained recently, because mud squelches beneath her boots as she walks, studying the homes made out of metal sheets (so unlike what she sees in Polis, with their wooden and even clay brick homes, a place Gustus calls a ‘proper’ city). Yet somehow, Lexa finds the village beautiful. Children’s toys lay on the ground, forgotten. The smell of the most recent hunt roasting over a fire wafts through the air. And then there are the flowers: everywhere, colors ranging from white to a bright, electric blue, and the most abundant of them all, the small purple flowers from the hanging vine. Lexa stops when she sees a particularly large cluster of the flowers and reaches out, barely brushing the petals with her fingertips.

“Wisteria,” the Commander says. Lexa is unsurprised she is there, does not wonder how she did not hear the older woman’s approach.

“What?”

“The flower was called wisteria. Before the world ended.” She leans forward, her nose brushing against the flower, a relaxed expression on her face (a face wiped clean of the paint, wiped clean of blood). “It is beautiful, no?”

“Yes, _heda_.”

“Do you know why we call it the hanging vine?” Lexa shakes her head, and the Commander straightens, her grey eyes fixed on Lexa, everything about her—from the hard gaze to the stiffness of her shoulders—making Lexa feel cold. “They say that those who survived the world’s end were driven mad by the pain. So they made ropes out of these vines and hung themselves.” Lexa swallows, taking several steps back, slipping in the mud and falling backwards. The Commander looms over her, suddenly dressed in her war gear, face slicked with so much war paint that it drips off of her and onto Lexa. (It is only when Lexa frantically tries to rub the paint off that she realizes it is blood—sticky and warm and thick). She wants to move, wants to run, to cry, to curl up in a ball and wait until it is all over, but she knows she cannot do any of those things. Instead, she lays on the mud, staring up into the eyes of her Commander (a Commander she has not feared until now). “Are you the rain after the drought, Lexa?” she asks, her grey eyes still cold, still hard. Lexa swallows.

“I do not know.”

“These flowers bloom for you, _goufa_.” She indicates the wisteria, a small smile appearing on her lips. “This is your death sentence.” Lexa feels tears roll down her cheeks and she turns away, curling up into a ball.

“No more,” she mutters. “No more. Please _, heda_. No more.” The Commander kneels beside her, and after a short pause, gathers Lexa into her arms, holding her tightly, smoothing back her hair and rocking her. Lexa’s eyes flutter close.

“It is all right, child. It will be all right.” The Commander continues rocking her, but Lexa’s silent tears do not cease. _It is not all right,_ she wants to scream, _it is not all right and it will never be all right_.

(When she wakes, she is in her own bed, and Anya dozing in the chair beside her, one hand clenching Lexa’s. When she wakes, she wipes her cheeks hurriedly, hiding the evidence of her weakness, her nightmare still before her eyes).

* * *

“Are you all right, Lexa?” She flinches at the wording, but gives Costia a reassuring smile. They have not spoken of what she did (of how she fell apart in Costia’s arms, sobbing like a child several months ago), and for that, Lexa is eternally grateful. However, she is far more appreciative of the fact that whatever rift had sprung between them after meeting Eve and Ric (and then betraying them) is now gone.

“I heard Anya telling Verda that Lexa has not been sleeping,” Frieda says in a mock whisper. “That she has not been eating, that she has not even touched a sword since…” She trails off, clearly unable to finish her statement, the light teasing tone she had first adopted all but gone. Lexa however, is inwardly cursing Anya. It was not enough that she told the Commander everything, but now she was talking to the other mentors too.

“Anya is mistaken.”

“You do look tired, Lexa,” Costia says worriedly, stepping closer. She raises a tentative hand to Lexa’s cheek, her eyes full of concern. Lexa allows the touch for only a moment before gently pulling Costia’s hand away, stepping back. “You haven’t trained with us in months.”

“I have been spending more time with Anya.” This is true, she has been spending more time with her mentor rather than the other seconds. But it was not by choice: “In the state you are in, those seconds would destroy you. It is best if we trained alone.” (This translated to: “You are weak, and we cannot have anyone seeing the _heda_ -to-be weak). 

“Is it a _heda_ -to-be sort of thing? Is that why you’re being so secretive?” Frieda asks, and Lexa notices she looks vaguely uncomfortable, by Costia’s close proximity to Lexa or the topic of their conversation, Lexa does not know or care. “You never spend time with us anymore.”

“I am spending time with you now,” Lexa mutters. This is also true, but again, it was not by choice. She had been walking back to her room when Frieda had noticed her and called out to her. She and Costia had just finished their training session and were resting, while Lexa had just ambled around in the Commander’s garden, immersing herself in the scent of the flowers while listening to Gustus’s newest lecture (“You are neglecting your duties,” she can still hear him telling her, and she _still_ has no adequate response). Frieda opens her mouth, but Costia turns and gives her a sharp glare, making the girl sigh.

“I just remembered I have errands to run for Verda. I’ll just be leaving then.” Lexa and Costia do not respond, and with a final reluctant sigh, Frieda stalks off. After a second, Costia reaches out again (this time far more sure of herself), and takes Lexa’s hand in her own.

“It has been three months, Lexa.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Costia squeezes Lexa’s hands and pulls her down so that they are sitting cross-legged on the grass, facing each other. For a moment, the other girl says nothing, her dark eyes roving Lexa’s face, studying her. Then she leans forward, her breath on Lexa’s face.

“It is all right not to be all right,” she says so softly that Lexa barely hears her. But she _does_ hear her, and the words just make her heart thud painfully in her chest.  

“You don’t understand.”

“Your burden? Your pain? What you are going through? Because, no, I don’t.” The retort on the tip of Lexa’s tongue dies as she registers the last part of Costia’s comment. “I don’t understand, so you have to help me.”

“What do you want from me?”

“An admission that you are not all right for one.” Lexa looks down, staring intently at her hands. Without giving herself much time to think it through, pulls them out of Costia grasp and raises them.

“Look. Do you see it?” Costia just stares blankly at them.

“What I am supposed to be seeing?”

“The blood. Do you see the blood?”

“Lexa—”

“The Commander’s hands are _soaked_ in the blood of the enemies she has slain for her people. And now so are mine.” With deliberate slowness, Costia reaches up and threads her fingers through Lexa’s, shaking her head all the while.

“Glen wasn’t an enemy. And your hands aren’t soaked in his blood.”

“I killed him.”

“I know.”

“Don’t you see the stains?”  

“No.”

“Then who takes responsibility for his death? Who is his death on?” Costia swallows, her eyes filling with tears.

“It was on him, Lexa. He ran when he should have stayed. He went against everything we believe in, and he was punished for his actions. His death was his own fault.” Costia, who wore her heart on her sleeve, who was never afraid of saying what she thought, is _lying._ She is lying, and Lexa can tell from the way Costia’s grip tightens on her fingers, from the way she averts her eyes, from the way tears roll down her cheeks.

“Do you think by lying and supporting me my sins will disappear?” Lexa asks softly. Costia does not respond immediately. For several seconds, Lexa is rather sure she will _not_ respond at all. But then, with a heavy sigh, she meets Lexa’s gaze, biting her lip so hard that Lexa fears she will draw blood.

“Yes,” she says firmly, and though Lexa wants to argue, Costia never gives her the chance to voice her complaints aloud. “You belong to your people,” she says, her eyes becoming hard. “But I will not let them break you.”

Despite Costia’s words (or perhaps because of them), Lexa feels her heart break anyway.

* * *

“Pay attention, Lexa. This is important.” Lexa nearly rolls her eyes.

“There is a real conflict to our north, yet you have not spoken at all about it. Why waste time on invented ones?” Gustus raises his eyebrows, looking far more amused than Lexa thinks he has any right to look. Without speaking, he begins to gather the papers littering the table, then leans forward, resting on his elbows, and studies her with the smallest of smiles.

“You are usually not so difficult.”

“I am usually doing something worthwhile.”

“You don’t think this is worthwhile?” He is grinning now, not even bothering to hide his amusement, and Lexa grumbles incoherently under her breath. “You are learning.”

“I am reviewing things I learned long ago.”

“Prove it then, Lexa. Tell me what you would do.” She sighs, crosses her arms over her chest, and rolls her eyes.

“I would let them all die.” Gustus’s eyes immediately narrow, his cheerful expression gone.

“You should take this seriously.” Lexa sits up straighter, her turn to raise her eyebrows.

“I am, Gustus. You said it yourself, remember? I must be ruthless and help as many as I can to survive. So I would let the village be wiped out by the disease. I would not send healers or aid. With nothing to infect, the disease would die out and the rest of my people would be safe.”

“What if the disease does not kill, only maims?”

“Then I will finish the job.” Gustus stares at her for a moment then laughs, the sound gruff and mirthless.

“Sometimes being good is not an option. So you remember.” He shakes his head, and for whatever reason, he seems disappointed. “Very well. You wish to discuss the conflict to our north. What do you want to know?”

“Why are the Desert Clan and Ice Nation at odds? Why does the Commander not send warriors to our borders should there be retaliation for what happened? Why—” Gustus chuckles, holding up his hands.

“Slow down, child. One question at a time.” Lexa clamps her mouth shut, staring at him expectantly, waiting. After a chuckle, Gustus digs through his pocket and pulls out a handful of dried fruits. He hands it to her with a grin, and Lexa—after a moment of contemplating being difficult on purpose—accepts the treat with a huff that just makes Gustus laugh again. “The Ice Nation and Desert Clan share a problem. Can you think of what that problem may be?” Lexa chews on a dried apple slice, thinking hard.

“Food?” she finally guesses. Gustus nods.

“Yes, child. The Ice Nation and Desert Clan both have infertile soil, weather that makes it difficult to grow crops. There is nearly always a shortage of food.”

“But if they share this—”

“Remember their locations. The Ice Nation is further to the north, and while they have no food, there is an abundance of water from rain. The Desert Clan suffers from a lack of water, but they also nearly completely surround the Ice Nation’s southern border, meaning that—”

“—in order to get food to the Ice Nation, it must pass through the Desert Clan’s lands,” Lexa finishes for him, nodding.

“The Ice Nation’s Queen and the Desert Clan’s Chief made a treaty of sorts many years ago. The Ice Nation provides water, and in return, the Desert Clan allows safe passage of food from the south, from the _Trikru_ and the Boat Clan.”

“What happened?”

“The Queen is ailing. Her daughter is slowly taking charge, and she is a foolish woman.” Lexa nearly grins, remembering that the Commander had felt the same way about the Ice Nation’s leader. “She cut off water to the Desert Clan, demanding that they send more food. Their agreement is fragile as it is, and of course, the Chief of the Desert Clan took this as an act of war.” He hands over more fruit, noticing that Lexa has finished the handful he gave her earlier. “Both demanded that the _Trikru_ and Boat Clan send food to them, but not the other. _Heda_ , of course, decided against sending food at all.”

“But the Desert Clan provides medicines. And the Ice Nation gives us furs.”

“Yes, but _heda_ believes it is best we make do without them until this conflict ends. She does not want to take sides and potentially be thrust into a three-front war.”

“A three-front war? Only the Valley People continue to have skirmishes to our west.” Gustus smiles, placing his hand on top of Lexa’s head.

“You forget the _Maunon_ , child. As long as they are to the south, on any given day, we will be fighting at least a two-front war.”

“But that is true of everyone. The Boat Clan, the Desert Clan, even the Valley People.”

“Yes.”

“Then why waste time with each other? Why not eliminate the _Maunon_?” Gustus removes the comforting weigh on Lexa’s head, leaning closer to her, his eyes full of a seriousness they have lacked for most of the lesson.

“Because the _Maunon_ would eliminate us first, child.” He straightens and clears his throat. “That is why _heda_ cannot send men to the north. She must—”

“—be ruthless and help as many as she can to survive. More live near Polis than near our borders to the Ice Nation, and she cannot leave us unprotected. I understand.” Gustus nods approvingly, handing her the last bit of the dried fruit, but suddenly, the treat has lost all its appeal.

* * *

When she sees him, her heart nearly stops.

Costia is chattering away about something—Lexa stopped listening minutes ago, when she realized this was something Costia had spoken about at depth before—and Lexa is amusing herself by counting the number of times Anya rolls her eyes Costia’s comments. The streets of Polis are far more crowded than usual, an influx of people from the north filling the city. And that is where she sees him, nearly hidden among the crowd in the street, his almost-white hair standing out amongst the sea of various shades of brown. The front of his clothes is bloody and dark, his mouth curled into a sneer he never wore when alive.

It is Glen.

Lexa stops walking, shaking from head to toe, ignoring the people bumping into her, mumbling under their breath as they walk by. In the moment it takes for Anya and Costia to realize Lexa is no longer walking with them and turn around, Lexa has managed to school her features, hide the fact that she has broken into a cold sweat. And when the three of them walk by the spot Glen is standing, his eyes fixed on Lexa, cruel and dark, Lexa swallows and frantically quells the urge to sob.

(She wakes at that point, drenched in sweat and shaking. She wakes, and Anya is not sleeping by her bedside, but studying her, the strangest expression on her candlelit face).

“I am fine,” Lexa mutters, accepting the glass of water Anya hands her. For a whole minute, Anya merely watches as Lexa sips gratefully at the cool liquid. Then, she blows out the candle.

“I would be more worried if that were true, my little _heda_ -to-be,” she says.

* * *

“Lexa! Lexa! Open your door! There is news!” Lexa shuffles over to do as she is told, shocked when Frieda launches herself at her, holding onto her shoulders as if she cannot hold herself up.

“Are you all right?” Frieda nods frantically, her breathing coming quickly and harshly, like she has just run for miles.

“A large group of warriors from a small village to the north are arriving today. They sent scouts ahead,” she says, still breathless and still using Lexa to hold herself up. “The Ice Nation has invaded our land!”

“What village?”

“No one would say. But the Commander wants you in the war room immediately. She sent me for you.” Without another word, Lexa pulls out of Frieda’s grasp and takes off running, laughing as Frieda shouts, “I expect you to tell me everything!”

When she makes it to the war room, only slightly out of breath, she straightens the sash around her waist and stands a little stiffer before entering, immediately going to her spot next to the Commander. Gustus offers her his customary smile and Anya nods at her, but the other generals mostly ignore her (except for Grenda, who scowls).

“You are right on time,” the Commander says. “The brave warrior who has brought us this news is from your village, Lexa. His name is Rox.” She gestures to the other side of the table, and there, older, tanner, larger, with a long beard, is Lexa’s brother. He is practically unrecognizable except for his eyes, his eyes that he inherited from their mother, his eyes that are an exact replica of her own. There is a second that Lexa forgets herself—she forgets who she is, where she is, how serious the situation is—and she wants to cry out, to rush to him and wrap her arms around him, hug the brother that she has not seen for five years. And she can tell, from the wide-eyed look on his face, his mouth hanging slightly open, he has forgotten himself as well. Lexa swallows, averts her eyes, and nods at her Commander, and to her ultimate relief, Rox follows her lead.

“Shall I begin, _heda_?” Rox asks, his English perfect, not at all the strangled, stiff way he spoke after first becoming a second. The Commander nods without looking at him, her eyes on Lexa instead, a ghost of a smile on her face, and Rox begins to speak. “Less than a week ago, there were rumors that the Ice Queen had died and her daughter had taken her place, permanently.”

“Lies,” hisses Grenda, shaking her head. “If the Queen is dead, the Ice Nation would be in mourning. They are a frivolous people.” Rox nods, as if he expected such a comment.

“Yes, so we sent scouts, to confirm the news.” He pauses, his eyes resting momentarily on Lexa before focusing again on the Commander. “The Ice Queen _has_ passed, and her daughter has taken over. But there was no mourning. Instead, she met with the Desert Clan’s Chief. Ended the war.”

“That easily?” Gustus mutters, raising an eyebrow.

“They have come up with a new deal, _heda_ ,” Rox continues, ignoring Gustus’s comment. “They wish to invade our land together, end their dependence on us for food.”

“And we invited them in,” the Commander says, leaning forward and resting on her knuckles. “Invited them when I called back our warriors to protect my people in case the Desert Clan retaliated.” Silence meets her words, everyone staring at the Commander, waiting for her decision (waiting to be told what to do). In that moment, it is like a weight has settled on the Commander’s back, bending her further forward, rendering her incapable of standing on her own power. She leans even more onto the table. “I was mistaken, this new Ice Queen is no fool. But I have been Commander for more than half of my life. We will go to war, and we will see which one of us is more capable of waging it.”

“And the _Maunon_?” Verda asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “The Ice Nation does not need to worry about an attack from behind their lands as we do.”

“And there are the Valley People as well,” Grenda adds unhelpfully. “They will be all too glad to take advantage of this.” The Commander opens her mouth to respond when Lexa surprises herself and everyone else by speaking.

“We could ask the Boat Clan for help.” Grenda’s eyes immediately narrow, Gustus looks curious, and Anya cracks a grin, but Lexa’s focus is on the Commander, who is being frustratingly silent.

“Explain,” Gustus prods, and Lexa swallows, looking around the table and meeting Rox’s eyes for a moment before plowing on.

“The Desert Clan and Ice Nation will still need food from somewhere. We should speak with Luna. Since she has taken over, the Boat Clan has kept to itself. But she would help. Her people need our lumber. It is in her _interest_ to help.” Anya’s grin widens slightly, as if she is reluctantly impressed, and Lexa feels flushed with pride. She is about to add more when the Commander straightens, her eyes hard.

“That is not our way.”

“But _heda_ —”

“I said it is _not_ our way, Lexa. Do you understand?” Lexa blinks at the harsh tone, but otherwise does not react. She nods in acceptance and the Commander looks around the table. “We will begin planning our war tomorrow. When I am done, the new Ice Queen will regret the day she dared think of invading _Trigedakru_ lands.” The others nod and begin to shuffle out, but when Lexa makes to follow them, the Commander grabs her by the arm. “Stay, Lexa. We must speak.” They stand there silently until the last person is gone (Anya, who gives Lexa a sympathetic smile), and then the Commander collapses into a chair, rubbing her eyes.

“I am sorry for speaking out of turn, _heda_.”

“No, you misunderstand. I am not upset because you spoke up.” She sighs, her hands dropping to her lap, the saddest expression Lexa has ever seen making an appearance on her face. “Alliances are risky, Lexa. The relationship we have with the Boat Clan is tenuous at best. Asking Luna for help would mean making ourselves vulnerable. She might decide to help the Ice Nation instead.”

“But if we don’t ask for help, hundreds of people will die.” The Commander nods, clearly worn.

“We cannot afford to trust anyone with alliances. We are fighting a two-front war on any given day—when that changes, so can we.” She suddenly smiles, almost as if she managed to physically push away all her worries, even if it was for just a moment. “Now go. Say hello to your brother. I’m sure you must be excited to see him again.”

“You knew?” The Commander grins.

“Of course I did. And you did well not to react. Remember—”

“—your desires will always be used against you. Yes _heda_ , I know.” The Commander smiles, her eyes considerably softer than before, but she is silent. It is when Lexa turns to leave when the Commander finally speaks up.

“You will be great, you know. As _heda_ ,” she adds unnecessarily. “When your Spirit passes on, there will not be a single child who does not know your name.”

* * *

“You have grown,” Rox says, smiling at her. He is sitting at her desk, his eyes roving the room, an impressed look on his face. “And you seem to be very well-treated.”

“They claim I am the _heda_ -to-be.”

“Claim?”

“Sometimes…” She trails off, shaking her head. _Not even Rox_ , she reminds herself. _Not even him_. “There are others. I may not be the one.” Rox nods, either not noticing her pause or not caring. Lexa cannot decide which is worse.

“Would it be bad if I wished you were not the one?” he asks with a grin. Lexa laughs, surprised at his question, but mostly glad for his presence, relieved that he is real, breathing, and sitting in her room as if no time has passed at all.

“How are Tris and father?” Rox’s grin fades.

“Tris is fine. She is with me.” He smiles widely, as if trying to make up for his slip, but it is too late: Lexa feels dread pool in her stomach. “She is very much like you. If…” He shrugs, not needing to finish his sentence (“She is very much like you. _If you hadn’t left. If you never became_ heda- _to-be_. _If nothing had changed_ ”).

“And father?”

“Lexa—”

“I want you to say it.” It is an order—there is no mistaking her tone—and for a moment, Rox is nothing but shocked, his mouth gaping, his eyes widening comically. But then he inclines his head (she is wearing the sash, the sash that marks her as different—different, even, with her brother).

“His fight is over.” Other than rapidly blinking away the tears that immediately spring to her eyes, Lexa refuses to react. She will not show weakness ( _not even to Rox, not even to him)_.

“I have missed you, Rox,” Lexa finally says when she feels she can trust her voice not to betray her emotions. Rox smiles, and it is as if they have gone back in time—to when she was six and met the Commander for the first time—because his look is sad and knowing, his smile heartbreaking.

“I miss my little sister every day,” he says. Lexa blinks several times in quick succession, but she does not react. She does not show weakness—not even to her brother.

(“ _Sometimes_ ,” she wanted so desperately to tell him, “ _sometimes, I feel as if I am nothing at all.”_ And she has never felt it as strongly as she does now).

* * *

He chases her.

Lexa weaves through the trees, avoiding fallen branches and large roots, her heart racing. She knows she must get away, she knows she must flee. She cannot escape him otherwise—he is everywhere, watching her, judging her, _hating_ her, for what she did to him. And she understands. She even accepts the anger.

But she wants nothing more than to escape him.

She continues running, startled when she reaches a clearing, the sudden sunlight blaring into the woods blinding her. Lexa slows to a walk, shielding her eyes from the sun with her forearm, when she feels him finally catch up to her. Blood drips from the wound on his chest, his eyes wide and uncomprehending as he grasps blindly at her, tugging on the sash around her waist, pulling on her shirt form behind and choking her.

“I am _sorry_ ,” Lexa cries, terrified, tears running down her cheeks. “I’m so _sorry_ , Glen. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to kill you.” She stops fighting him, stops trying to wrest out of his grasp. “It was my fault, I should have paid attention, I should have fought harder for you.” She feels her shirt being released, and she turns around wildly.

Glen is standing there, but there is no blood. A small smile graces his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling (Lexa did not know it did that when he smiled, but then, she had barely known him. And that was his reward, for meeting the _heda_ -to-be. He got to die for a girl he barely knew). Lexa closes her eyes. “I’m so _sorry,”_ she repeats, but when she opens her eyes, Glen is gone, the clearing is dark, a funeral pyre burning away.

“Saving lives is much more important than taking them, Lexa.” She looks around wildly, searching for the source of the voice.

“Mother?” she calls, recognizing the words. “Mother?”

“She is gone.” Lexa twirls around, staring into the cold, hard grey eyes of the Commander. “And I will be gone soon as well, _goufa_.” Lexa steps forward, reaching out to her _heda_ , but the woman disappears, the world goes back, and Lexa wakes, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but in her own bed.

Without waking Anya (who has taken up residence in Lexa’s room, to “keep an eye on her”), Lexa pulls on her shoes and sneaks out of her bedroom, heading straight towards the Commander’s garden in order to be alone and get some fresh air. Unfortunately, when she arrives, there is someone already there.

“Anya said you were having trouble sleeping.” Lexa swallows, walking over to the Commander and sitting beside her on the grass.

“Nightmares.”

“Understandable. But remember—”

“—you must never let your fear govern your actions.” The Commander laughs, nodding. After a short silence, Lexa turns to the older woman with a sigh. “The hanging vine, _heda_. Why is it called that?”

“They say that after the world ended, men and women were driven mad with the pain. So they made ropes out of the vine and hung themselves.” She looks at Lexa oddly. “I have told you this story before. During one of our dinners.”

“I know. It’s just…” _Not even Rox_ , she reminds herself. Never admit weakness to _anyone_. “You have said these flowers bloom for me. Does that mean I will hang?” Her voice is impossibly quiet by the end of her question, unable to believe she spoke her fears aloud, unable to believe she admitted such a weakness to her Commander (“ _You need not hide from me. I know you are anything but weak,_ ” her Commander once said. This is a test, Lexa decides. A test for her _heda_. A test for the Commander).

“Oh child,” the Commander says, shaking her head immediately. “No, of course not.” Lexa watches how _heda’s_ lips twitch slightly, as if she is fighting a frown. But there is no disappointment, no judging, no anger. “I meant that you bring beauty to the world. That my stench will be hidden by your sweetness. Do you understand?” She places a hand on Lexa’s shoulder, eying her carefully. “You are my salvation.”

“I am nothing, _heda_. I cannot even escape Glen’s ghost.”

“No, Lexa, you misunderstand. It is _because_ he haunts you that you are the rain.” Her frown is far more pronounced now, as she stares Lexa down, not allowing her to break eye contact. “He will always haunt you,” she says, her voice breaking slightly. “And that is your burden to bear.”

 

 


	7. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You must be careful, child,” she says softly, pulling away slightly. Lexa can feel the Commander’s gaze, and she nearly buckles beneath its weight. “I fear you have underestimated the risk you are taking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major credit to killthegiant from tumblr. She helped A LOT with this chapter. Thank you so much for talking Lexa with me! Also, this chapter got a little long, so sorry for that. (There was a lot to cover!)

**Fourteen**

 

Their lands have been violated, ravaged, burned, left in ruins. Their people’s blood soaks the soil, drips from the sky when it rains. Orphans fill the streets of Polis, and though having children is an honor, there are very few remaining who can receive it. (This is what losing a war feels like, Gustus told Lexa in confidence one afternoon, before they had set out to meet the Commander, the two of them eating some sort of dried meat. Food is scarce, everything redirected to their armies, and even the thin, salty slabs of meat are better than nothing at all).

The Commander left Polis long before they did, waging war as only she knew how—a desperate desire to show the Ice Queen how foolish she truly was consuming her entire being, filling her with an unquenchable thirst for the Queen’s blood. _Jus drein jus daun_ , she wrote to Lexa while they were separated, _and I will suck the Ice Nation dry_.

This has come true—to an extent. War has been costly for both sides, so costly in fact, that the Desert Clan is in shambles, their people flocking to the east, hoping to find shelter and safety. But now, after months of fighting, of war, of drowning in the blood of their enemy, it has become clear to Lexa that _heda_ will not be satisfied, that her _heda_ has been utterly transformed by the threat to her people. (She continues to have nightmares, and it is this new _heda_ that haunts her, this _heda_ that she is rather sure she is destined to become—“To be the Commander, Lexa, you must lose yourself,” the Commander told her one night, worn and weary after a day of fighting and battle plans, and Lexa could only nod).  

Things are bleak, their people are dying, and more and more, it is to Costia that Lexa turns—to Costia for comfort, for security, for the light feeling in the pit of her stomach that she has never experienced before, yet craves. Anya, still watching her despite the war, notices this change very quickly.

“You like her,” she accuses one night, bursting into Lexa’s tent (it is not actually Lexa’s tent—she shares it with Frieda and Costia, because the _heda_ -to-be does not get special treatment during war).

“Like who?”

“The girl. The one who asks too many questions.”

“She has a name,” Lexa says patiently, smiling slightly at her mentor. “And she has not asked questions in years.” Anya’s eyes narrow and she shakes her head, the warpaint and blood streaking her face making her look rabid (Lexa assumes this is a look they all share, for she wears warpaint for the first time too—the only difference is that she has not yet killed in the heat of battle and is not coated in blood).

“You did not answer me.”

“There wasn’t a question, Anya.” Her mentor purses her lips, a cross between disappointment and annoyance flitting across her face.

“I have known you for half your life, Lexa. Do you think I don’t know when you’re trying to avoid a conversation?”

“I am not avoiding anything, Anya,” Lexa says, beginning to lose patience. She has already had this conversation with Gustus, and she is not keen on having it again. “Costia is a fellow second.”

“You spend time with her, more than with the others.” Lexa draws herself up to her full height, shocked when she realizes she is only a few inches shorter than her mentor.

“Speak freely, Anya. I know you wish to.”

“You are allowing your feelings to get in the way. Anyone who watches you for even a moment could tell you care for the girl. I told you, Lexa, _hodnes laik kwelnes_.” She stares at Lexa carefully for a moment, something flashing in her eyes. “You are not someone who can afford to love.”

“I do not love Costia.”

“Lexa—”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Anya, we are in the middle of a war. I know better.” Anya looks like she wants to argue, so Lexa shakes her head quickly, speaking up once more. “Trust that I know better than to risk so much on _feelings_.” There is a moment—just a split second—that Lexa thinks she has bested her mentor, that for once Anya would just _listen_ to her. But the moment is gone quickly, and Anya shakes her head, sporting a melancholy expression.

“You have grown, Lexa,” she says softly, stepping forward and brushing back Lexa’s hair (the gesture is comforting, even _motherly_ , and Lexa stills, unsure what she has done to make Anya act this way). “You have grown, yet I fear you are still a child at heart.” Anya’s thumb brushes against Lexa’s cheek, and then she steps away, her eyes still sad. “It is that heart that will break you.” Without another word, she leaves the tent the same way she came (abruptly), and Lexa is left standing there, shaking.

* * *

“ _Heda,_ our warriors cannot continue this way!” Lexa blinks at the tone—one she has not heard directed at the Commander, ever—but _heda_ looks unaffected. “They have not slept in days, most of them have lost their seconds. This is _not_ a war, it is a massacre!”

“And what is the difference?” Verda asks, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Grenda. “What choice do we have? Surrender and allow the Ice Queen to take our lands? To kill us all?”

“At this rate, we will die anyway,” Grenda spits, clenching her fists. She turns back to the Commander, shaking her head furiously. “We are losing this war because we are spread too thin.” Gustus snorts.

“And what would you have _heda_ do? Bring our warriors from the south? The ones who defend us from potential attacks from the _Maunon_? Or perhaps we leave our other borders open? This is a three-front war,” he says.

“It would not be if we had given the Ice Nation what they wanted. We all knew that the Desert Clan was comparatively weak. We should have just supported the Ice Queen and given her food as she asked.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the Desert Clan still fights for the Ice Queen,” Verda points out, obviously close to rolling her eyes.

“Yes, but their numbers are few. They are an enemy we could have easily handled on our one. But—” But Verda is clearly no longer willing to listen, and she begins to shout over Grenda’s comments. Soon enough, the other generals join in, each of them lending their voices to the chaotic cacophony, and Lexa can do nothing but stare at these men and women—who she once found strong and impressive—reduce themselves to nothing but a puddle of fear and desperation.

“Enough.” It is a wonder that the single word, said so softly, is heard at all. But the effect is instantaneous: Everyone—even Grenda—falls silent. “Squabbling like children will get us nowhere,” the Commander says, standing tall. She alone is calm, she alone exudes patience and fearlessness.

She alone knows what she is doing.

“ _Heda,_ perhaps it is in our favor to retreat,” Grenda says, swallowing hard at the glare she receives in response.

“No. A retreat would merely invite the Ice Queen further into our lands. I will not do it.”

“But it would gives us time to come up with a defense. To have warriors—”

“—unless your plan for defense involves something _other_ than the warriors protecting our other borders, I don’t want to hear it.” A silence follows the Commander’s words, and Lexa knows what that means: They have no other ideas, not other plans. Lexa stares at the Commander’s face, takes note of the weariness that lines her face—a weariness she is far too young to be experiencing—and she finds herself speaking.

“We could ask for help.” Grenda lets out a scathing snort, rolling her eyes.

“ _Heda_ has already explained that that is _not_ our way,” she says, but the Commander is eyeing Lexa curiously, so Lexa ignores Grenda and continues to speak.

“All of you heard what our scouts said—Luna is preparing for war. She knows as well as we do that once we fall, the Boat Clan will follow. Right now, we are all that stands between her and the Ice Nation’s army.”

“What would you do, Lexa?” the Commander asks, turning to face her completely, one eyebrow raised.

“We ask the Boat Clan for help. Warriors, healers, anyone they can spare. And the warriors who defend our borders with the Boat Clan would no longer be needed there—”

“—so we can call them here,” Verda finishes for her, nodding. “But alliances are risky. What would stop Luna from offering us to the Ice Queen in return for a truce? We would be making ourselves vulnerable.” Lexa swallows at the way everyone stares at her, waiting for her response, suddenly expecting _her_ to have all the answers.

“It wouldn’t matter. If we don’t ask for help, we will lose this war. This is the only thing that gives us any sort of chance.” Many of the generals begin nodding, murmuring their agreement, but Lexa has eyes only for the Commander, the Commander who has her eyes closed, her lips twisted into the beginnings of a frown.

“Even if I were willing to make such an alliance, I could not go. My people need me here, to protect them,” she says, her eyes opening and focusing on Lexa. “I am sorry, child, but—”

“—send me,” Lexa interrupts, her voiced laced with desperation. “You can’t go, so send me.”

“You are a child,” Grenda snarls.

“I am the _heda_ -to-be!”

“You have not yet gotten through the Conclave, you are _nothing_!” Lexa feels a sudden shift in the room—she can feel the anger of the Commander, but most importantly, she can feel how the others wait with bated breath, watching to see the outcome of this challenge (because Lexa is the _heda_ -to-be, the Commander has stated it to be so, yet for whatever reason, Lexa agrees more with Grenda than her _heda_ ).

“And what have _you_ done, Grenda?” Lexa asks, her voice soft. This is a trick she learned from the Commander—never show your anger, never show your feelings, never show _anything_. “You were the first to want war, the first to want to rush in, and now you’re the first to suggest we run, flee like cowards. You, Grenda, have not had one good idea since the Ice Nation attacked.” The woman’s face turns red, but Lexa is not done. “You contradict everything, yet you give nothing. You argue and disagree, but have yet to provide a sensible alternative.” She steps closer to the woman, her head held high, imitating the Commander—quelling the feelings of inadequacy, knowing that they have no place in war. “This is _my_ plan, _my_ idea. And I will be the one to see it through.”

“ _Heda_ ,” Grenda says, ignoring Lexa completely and turning to the Commander, “you cannot possibly consider—”

“Are you questioning _my_ leadership?” she asks, her voice steady, calm, dangerous.

“No, of course not, _heda_. But—”

“ _Enough_.” Grenda hangs her head, cowed, and the Commander turns to Lexa, eyeing her carefully. “I still believe this is a bad idea, Lexa. But I trust your judgment. You will go in my stead. I cannot spare more than a dozen warriors to go with you, I need as many as I can to hold off the Ice Nation until you bring reinforcements.” Lexa, hands shaking because the Commander has put implicit trust in her in front of all the generals—in front Grenda—shakes her head.

“I don’t need a dozen warriors. Just Anya.” Anya grins widely, not bothering to hide it. “We need to move quickly, a large group couldn’t do that.”

“Yes, but you need protection,” Gustus protests. “I can accompany you as well.”

“I can go as well,” Verda says, turning to the Commander. “I will accompany the _heda_ -to-be. Me and my second.” The Commander nods.

“Very well. Verda, Anya, Gustus, go prepare. You set out at first light.” She coughs, waving Gustus off when he offers her his waterskin, turning to Lexa instead. “I wish to speak with you alone.” Lexa nods, and follows her Commander out of the tent, keeping her head down as they walk slowly through the camp. “I don’t like this plan, Lexa,” she finally says when they are a distance away from the camp, hidden amongst a cluster of trees.

“I know, _heda_.” It is dark, and Lexa cannot see the Commander’s expression, so she is shocked when the woman pulls her into an embrace, holding her tightly.

“You must be careful, child,” she says softly, pulling away slightly. Lexa can feel the Commander’s gaze, and she nearly buckles beneath its weight. “I fear you have underestimated the risk you are taking.”

“I’ll get Luna to agree. This will work, _heda_.” The Commander laughs, pulling Lexa into another hug.

“My dear child,” she says, her grip tightening just a tad, “that is not what I meant.”

* * *

Costia finds her as she is packing the last of her things.

“So it’s true,” she says without preamble, walking over to Lexa’s right, staring at the rucksack with a distasteful glint in her eyes. “You’re leaving.”

“Yes.” Lexa notices the worry on Costia’s face, so she hurries to elaborate. “It is safe, and it will be quick. You will barely notice I’m gone.”

“Frieda is going with you.”

“Because she is Verda’s second.”

“Take me too.”

“I can’t. _Heda_ would never allow it. Besides, five people is already too many.” Costia stares at her, her expression going from desperate to terrified to determined in the span of seconds.

“You _must_ be careful,” she says, echoing the Commander’s words (yet unlike the Commander’s words, which filled Lexa with warmth, Costia’s concern does something else entirely—it gives her a bubbly, swooping feeling in the pit of her stomach, it makes her head spin, her heart to race). “You _must_ come back, do you understand me?”

“Is that an order, Costia?” Lexa jokes, untying the sash around her waist and stuffing it into her bag—there would be no use for it as they traveled. When Costia does not respond, Lexa looks up curiously, shocked when she notices the girl is far closer than she was before, that determined look still in her eye.

“It is,” she answers, and Lexa notices the light freckles on Costia’s nose, notices how soft her hair looks, notices her lips, how inviting they are, and she suddenly wants to know if they are as soft as they seem…

“I am the _heda_ -to-be _,_ you can’t order me about,” Lexa mutters, somehow unable to avert her eyes from Costia’s lips. She is simultaneously too close and too far, and Lexa idly wonders if her heart should be going as fast or as hard as it is beating. But before Lexa can ask the healer’s daughter if this is normal, Costia leans forward and presses her inviting, soft lips to the corner of Lexa’s mouth.

“Please come back,” she says softly as she pulls away only seconds later. Unbidden, Lexa’s hand releases the straps of the rucksack and moves to touch the spot that Costia kissed, wondering if the tingling sensation should linger for so long. “Please.”

“I promise,” she says, the two words bursting from her mouth without her consent (and it is Costia’s answering smile, the way Lexa’s heart thuds in her chest in response, that makes her realize that she may have been lying when she spoke to Anya—she does not know better).

* * *

“You have been smiling since we set out, what’s wrong with you?” Anya asks, slowing enough so that she is riding beside Lexa. For a moment, Lexa just schools her expression, staring at the back of Frieda and Verda’s heads, then she turns to Anya.

“Costia kissed me,” she admits softly, looking down, unable to lie to her mentor. “I am sorry, Anya.”

“Why? Did you not like the kiss?” Lexa’s head shoots up, and she stares at Anya in shock.

“You’re supposed to be angry. You told me I shouldn’t have feelings.” Anya snorts, even going as far as to roll her eyes.

“No, I said you can’t _afford_ to have feelings. There’s nothing I can do when you go ahead and fall in love with the girl anyway.” She grins, reaching out and punching Lexa lightly in the arm. “Though you didn’t listen to me, I am happy that you’re happy.”

“I hear a ‘but’ in that statement.”

“But I hope you understand how vulnerable you make yourself. She will be used against you. She could turn on you.”

“You think this is a mistake,” Lexa states tonelessly, not even bothering to entertain the notion that Costia could turn on her, let alone argue with Anya about the possibility.

“Of course it is. Feelings always are.”

“What would you do? If you were me?” Anya frowns, shrugging lightly.

“It is a mistake, Lexa,” she says, but then she turns and meets her eyes, looking more like an older sister than a mentor. “Feelings make us weak, but that does not mean they are not worth it.”

“Worth the risk?”

“Worth the pain,” Gustus says, riding up to Lexa’s other side. He holds the reins of his horse in one hand and offers Lexa an apple with the other. “ _Heda_ has taught you this. Feelings always lead to pain.”

“You don’t agree with her,” Lexa guesses, taking the apple and biting into it. Gustus shakes his head, tossing an apple over to Anya before speaking.

“We live in an uncertain world, Lexa. The threats to our lives are numerous, and this is especially true for the Commander. She was not always so hard.”

“Gustus,” Anya mutters, her tone sounding like a warning.

“Lexa should know, it is not fair to her,” he argues, and after a second, Anya nods stiffly, digging her heels into her horse’s sides and hurrying forward, clearly unwilling to be a part of the conversation. Gustus watches her sadly and then turns to Lexa with a slight smile. “I became _heda’s_ mentor when I was twenty. She was a sprightly child, always wanting to do something, easily excitable, fond of rushing off to collect flowers. The Spirit was found in her early, much younger than you, and she took it with grace. It never cowed her, never fazed her. She accepted it, embraced it, and there was never a doubt in my mind that she was _meant_ to be _heda_.” Lexa, whose own experience has been vastly different, stares at her hands, letting Gustus’s words wash over her. “You are very like her.”

“You should not lie to make me feel better, Gustus.”

“It is not a lie, child,” he says, chuckling a little. “You and Isolde differ because she never questioned anything. She trusted the way things were done. But you are just as selfless, just as brave, just as strong as _heda_. Never doubt that.”

“So what changed? What made her hard?” Lexa asks, pocketing the apple core to feed to her horse later.

“I did,” he answers, his voice barely a whisper. “What we tend to forget is that illness is as great an enemy as the Ice Nation or the _Maunon_. The year _heda_ turned eleven, illness spread like wildfire, and many died, the Commander one of them. Isolde had to undergo the Conclave, and she asked me, her mentor, to ensure her parents escaped their village, that they got to Polis, where the illness had not yet struck.” His grip tightens on the reins, and his tone grows hard. “When I arrived, the people in the village were all very ill. Isolde’s parents told me to tell her they had died, so that she would not come and risk herself to see them.”

“That’s it? You disobeyed and that broke her?”

“No, Lexa,” Gustus say sadly. “We killed them, every last person in the village, then burned it to the ground. _That_ is what broke her.” Lexa stares at him in shock, unable to believe her ears.

“The tests you give me…they’re not invented are they?” She does not need Gustus to shake his head to get her answer—his expression is answer enough. “But she forgave you.”

“Oh yes. Isolde was always very good at being _heda_. She understood what I had done. Accepted it, embraced it. But the Conclave and her parents’ death changed something in her. She grew solemn, quiet, and has not trusted a single person since—except for you.”

“I don’t understand why.” Gustus shrugs in response.

“Because you are _you_ —the one who argued for art and science, the one who fought for Glen, who suggested an alliance instead of war.” He shrugs again, giving Lexa a smile. “You are different, and that is why she trusts you.”  

“I am the rain after a drought,” Lexa whispers, the words taking on a new and horrifying meaning. Gustus, however, seems oblivious to Lexa’s discomfort.

“Having feelings for the girl is not weakness. But should something happen to her, it will break you. And you are to be the Commander, Lexa. The things you love will _always_ be taken from you.”

* * *

They discover the Ice Nation scouts two days into their journey—when a knife embeds itself in Verda’s skull. She slouches against her horse, clearly dead, and Frieda—covered in the splatter of her mentor’s blood—lets out a shout despite herself.

“Shut up, you idiot!” Anya hisses, releasing an arrow in the direction of the attack. It is nothing but a blind shot, an attempt to buy them time to find cover. Gustus points to a rock formation to their right, but before they can even move, another knife comes flying towards them, just narrowly missing Lexa’s ear.

“I count three,” Gustus says, his eyes narrowed. Anya nods.

“The one in the tree is mine.” She turns to Lexa, her eyes wide. “You and Frieda find cover. Hide. _Go_!” she hisses when Frieda merely stares blankly at her dead mentor. With a growl, Lexa dismounts (she is an easier target on her horse), and rushes over to Frieda, barely paying attention to the fact that Anya and Gustus have gone to find the scouts. Without giving the other girl time to protest, she pulls her off her horse, grabbing Frieda’s pack as well as her own and Verda’s, and then runs towards the rock formation, dragging Frieda with her.

“Crouch,” she orders in a whisper, hearing the whistle of an arrow behind her, “we’ll be harder to spot among the grass.” Frieda does not respond, but Lexa assumes she has done as she was told—no more arrows fly their way. When they reach the rocks, Lexa pushes Frieda out of sight, while she looks into the tree line for signs of Anya, Gustus, and more importantly, of the Ice Nation scouts. “Frieda. Do you see them?” Lexa asks, her eyes flitting about, one hand on the knife at her belt. “Frieda?” Lexa prompts when the girl does not respond. She turns and looks down, first noticing the trail of red on the rocks before she sees the arrow protruding from Frieda’s side. “No. No, no, no.”

“Find the two that ran off,” a man calls, and Lexa forces her eyes away from Frieda. Dread pools in her stomach when she realizes Gustus was wrong—there were more than three scouts. She presses herself against the rock, hoping to remain hidden.

“Lexa, Verda is _dead_ ,” Frieda moans, and Lexa can hear the scouts speaking, but she cannot understand what they are saying, and their footsteps are getting closer.

“Shut up,” Lexa hisses, putting her hand over Frieda’s mouth, hoping the girl will be silent. But it is of no use. Frieda continues to moan and fight and Lexa knows that the girl is attracting attention, knows that they will be found, knows that there are at least three scouts around them—three scouts that Gustus missed (and if he missed three, Lexa knows there must be many more, knows that they are surrounded, that they need to get out of the area quickly and silently). She knows she is alone, her only weapon a small knife, and she knows that if she is caught, both she and Frieda will die. “Please, Frieda, _please_ ,” Lexa says, staring down at the girl, her eyes on the arrow in her side. The injury is severe, Frieda is bleeding out, but it is not fatal, they could save her, if only she would be _silent,_ if only they could get her out. “Please, be quiet. _Please._ ” The footsteps are even closer, and Frieda’s eyes are wide and she is staring at Lexa with fear. She squirms beneath Lexa’s hand, knowing— _knowing_ —what Lexa will need to do, but she is still not being silent. There is no one to help Lexa, no one to make the choice for her, no one to tell her what to do. She is alone, and she knows that there is no way Frieda will get out of this alive.

Lexa has no choice.

“I am so sorry,” she whispers, pulling out her knife. Frieda shakes her head violently, but Lexa manages to keep her down, pressing cruelly on the wound, smothering the girl’s scream with her hand. “They’ll hear you,” Lexa tries to explain, the knife shaking in her hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. “We have to get out of here, we have to get to the Boat Clan, we have to save our people.” Her heart is beating rapidly, sobs caught in her throat, and Frieda struggles no more. “We have to get out of here, and this is the only way I can help you. I won’t leave you here to be found by them. But I can’t take you either. This was the only way,” she whispers, blinded by her tears as she pulls the knife out. “I am so sorry. _Yu gonplei ste odon_.”  One of the men calls out and the footsteps stop and then start again, growing fainter. Knowing this is her only chance, Lexa shoulders the three packs, spares Frieda one last look, and then runs, heading into the trees, officially completely on her own.

* * *

She runs for what feels like hours, sweat streaming down her face and back, her grip on her knife so tight that she thinks she has cut off circulation to her fingers. Finally, her legs give way, and she falls face first into the muddy bank of the creek she has been following, sticking close to a water source as Anya has always taught her. The mud is cool, refreshing against her hot skin, and all Lexa wants to do is crawl into the creeks, let the water rush over her—let the water wash Frieda’s blood off her hands. Instead, she crawls out of the mud and leans against the closest tree, giving herself the chance to catch her breath before she kept going. (She has a job, with or without Anya and Gustus, and she _will_ see it through).

Lexa digs through her pack, pulls out some dried meat and fruit, eating with her eyes constantly roving around, ready to get up and leave in an instant should any danger approach. She is tired—so very tired—and she wants nothing more than to lean back, close her eyes for just a moment, to rest…

“First Glen and now Frieda. There is much blood on your hands, Lexa.” Lexa’s head shoots up, and there, standing in the muddy bank of the creek, is her brother. He is shaking his head, disappointment written all over his face. “I do not recognize you anymore.”

“I had no choice.”

“Of course you did. You could have chosen to fight.”

“We both would have been killed! There were too many!”

“How do you _know_? What if there were only two? What if Anya and Gustus were coming to your aid?” Lexa shakes her head, quelling the urge to cover her ears with her hands. “You killed her, killed her without stopping to think.”

“She would have died anyway. Of blood loss. The wound was severe, the bleeding heavy—I couldn’t move her.”

“You are justifying your actions, Lexa. You are justifying your kill.”

“I had to, I had to—”

“Your first instinct was to kill, not to help. You are not the same!”

“Stop. I had to, I _had_ to—”

“Was it worth it? Was it worth killing her like you killed Glen?”

“Stop it, _stop it!_ ” She is shaking, but more than that, she is _angry_. “I _had_ to. This was nothing like with Glen. She would have died anyway. I wanted to spare her a painful death.” She stares up at her brother, but he is not there. Instead, it is _heda_ , and her grey eyes are sad.

“Do you see, Lexa?  Do you see the pain I put you through? I never wanted this for you. I wish I had left you in your village—I wish I had never seen you.” _You are the rain after a drought_ , her Commander tells her _, but I would rather my people suffer through the plight._

Lexa wakes up, the setting sun the only indication of how much time has passed since she fell asleep.

Lexa wakes up, and it is to a sword at her throat.

* * *

They bind her hands and take her things, pushing her every so often to remind her to hurry her pace. One of the warriors, a woman with long, braided hair, talks to the man who Lexa woke up to, his blade at her throat. They seem to be arguing, and Lexa wonders if they are arguing about what to do with her. (All three warriors seemed quite keen on killing her until they saw the red sash hanging out of her open pack, at which point they merely tied her up. Clearly, they knew exactly who she was).

“Hurry up, girl,” the woman says irritably, noticing that Lexa has once again lagged behind. “We must get to the Captain before first light.”

“Who is the Captain? If you’re Ice Nation, you might as well kill me now.” The woman snorts, pausing and waving the lit torch in her hand, using it to indicate herself and the other warriors.

“Believe me, child. If the Captain decides to kill you, it will be the three of us who carry out the task.”

“Ah, you call me a child, yet you intuitively realize it would take all three of you to kill me.” The woman snorts again but she does not respond. Instead, she continues walking, the warrior behind Lexa pushing her in the shoulder, and they move on without a word.

The silence continues for the next hour, Lexa amusing herself by kicking leaves, rocks, pieces of wood at her captors. Each time she manages to hit one of them, they turn to her, roll their eyes, and shake their heads. They are impressively patient, and Lexa—who managed to find a small, sharp rock and pretended to trip in order to scoop it up in her bound hands—waits, pushing all their buttons, needing them to break. She has just managed to hit the man with the sword on the head when they stop. Lexa narrows her eyes, trying to see what they have stopped for, when she feels something hard knock her in the back of her head.

“You will wake with a terrible headache, child, and to be honest, I’m not sorry for that,” a voice says, and Lexa’s world goes black.

* * *

When she wakes, the first thing she is aware of is a blinding headache. She sits up slowly, taking in her surroundings.

She is in a room, quite similar to the war room back in Polis. There is a large, round table to her right, a window above her head, and a door across the room. She gets to her feet—noticing that her arms are unbound, the sharp rock missing—and shuffles to the door, struggling with it for a moment before giving up and sliding to the floor, her head between her knees.

_She has failed._

The three words repeat themselves in her mind, again and again, and shame—and overwhelming sense of shame—fills her, consumes her, blocking out all her fear. The Commander entrusted this task to her, the Commander believed she could get aid, and she _failed_. Verda and Frieda were dead, Anya and Gustus lost, and soon, Lexa would be gone too—not the _heda_ to be, just a girl who was incapable of the one task given to her.

She looks up as the door to the room flies open, and gets to her feet hurriedly, taking up a fighting stance (for should she die, she refuses to die without fighting back). The woman who walks in, however, laughs, shaking her head.

“Oh, try not to move so quickly, your head must still ache.”

“What does that matter?” Lexa hisses, her back to the wall. The woman smiles, and Lexa immediately takes note of the distinct lack of weapons (though it was possible she is hiding a blade in her baggy clothes). Her eyes are blue, like Gustus’s, her hair long and light, much like Anya’s. But it is the way that she carries herself, the way she stands, that reminds Lexa of the Commander. “You’re Luna,” Lexa mutters, dropping her hands, her mouth agape. “I made it?”

“My men were ordered to kill any Ice Nation scouts. But you are not one,” Luna says, stepping forward and staring Lexa straight in the eyes, a hard expression on her face. “Who are you, child? And why are you here?”

“ _Ai laik Leksa kom Trikru_. And I am here to ask for your help.” Luna sniffs, her smile returning.

“How did you know I spoke _Trigedasleng?”_

“We must know our enemies better than our friends.”

“And Luna of the Boat Clan is an enemy of the Tree People, is she?”

“She is not an ally,” Lexa says, her heart racing. “But she could be.” She takes a step forward, her expression earnest. “Please, let me speak on behalf of my people.”

“Your people send a child to speak for them?”

“They send their future Commander to speak for them.” Luna laughs at this, shaking her head.

“Oh, if you knew me, you would know that I know all about the Conclave and the way the Commander is chosen.” She turns, clearly about to leave, and Lexa begins to speak out of desperation.

“The Commander has chosen me as her successor, claims that the Conclave will only prove what she already knows to be true. She entrusted me with this task, sent me here to speak with you in her stead. Please, Luna of the Boat Clan, please let me speak on behalf of my people.” Luna turns back around, looking curious.

“That is very interesting. A _Trikru_ Commander that not only has chosen a successor before the Conclave, but seems to genuinely trust her.” She laughs again, gesturing for Lexa to sit at the table. “Very well then, _Leksa kom Trikru_. Let us speak.” Lexa sits hesitantly, watching as Luna sticks her head out the door, says something, and then walks back in, pulling out the chair across from Lexa, her smile intact. “Well?”

“I’ve come to ask for your people’s aid.”

“We were at war only a few years ago. Do you think my people have forgotten?” Lexa shakes her head.

“You attacked us first, killing my people for food when you could have just asked for it.” Luna raises an eyebrow, but does not linger on that point any longer.

“Your Commander has a reputation, _Leksa kom Trikru_. She is unwilling to listen, unbending, cruel. Why should I rush to the aid of such a person?”

“Because she is not the one you would be helping!” Lexa says, leaning forward. “You _need_ us. We protect you from all sorts of invaders—even now, we are the only thing standing between you and the Ice Nation. By helping us, you help yourself.”

“You are not listening,” Luna mutters, shaking her head. “I will not ally myself and my people with a woman who is perfectly willing to stab us in the back the minute she has no use for us anymore.” Luna snorts, rolling her eyes. “I am shocked that she asked for help at all. I always thought she would be more willing to die.”

“This was not her idea,” Lexa admits, not meeting Luna’s eyes, somehow feeling as if she is betraying the Commander. “It was mine.”

“Yours? And Commander Isolde listened to you?”

“I can be very convincing,” Lexa says, holding her head up high, sitting straight. “We have a common enemy to the south, and two more to the east. The _Trigedakru_ are small in number, but we have a great deal of land—fertile farming land. The opposite holds true for the Boat Clan.” Lexa hides her hands under the table, hides their shaking and sweating. “We don’t need to merely be allies for this war. This can last. You help us protect our borders, and we help your people prosper.”

“What assurances do I have that your Commander will keep the alliance, that it will last past this war?” Luna leans forward, her eyes darkening, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “How do I know I can trust Isolde?”

“You have _my_ promise. _My_ assurances.”

“You are not the Commander.”

“But I will be. I will be _heda_ , and this alliance _will_ last. I swear it.” Luna leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest, staring at Lexa as if she were a puzzle that just cannot be figured out. After a minute of silence, she nods..

“I want this to be very clear, _Leksa kom Trikru_. I make this alliance with you.”

“I understand.”

“No, I do not think you do. Should this alliance fall apart, for whatever reason, I will kill _you_.”

“I understand.” Lexa holds out her hand, and with surprising firmness, Luna takes it.

“Oh, and one more thing. Should you not become _heda_ , this alliance will die with you.” Lexa narrows her eyes at the odd wording but before she can speak, Luna releases her hand and gestures to the door, where several men and women are bringing in plates of all sorts of fish and bread. “I am sure you must be hungry. Eat. I have a surprise for my new ally.” She stands and leaves the room, and Lexa merely sits there, staring at the food she does not dare eat despite the grumbling of her stomach. She looks up when she hears footsteps, and to her astonishment, Gustus and Anya rush forward, the two of them immediately checking her for injuries.

“Were you hurt?” Anya asks, holding Lexa by the arms, her eyes pausing briefly at the red marks around Lexa’s wrists (red marks that she shares).

“No.”

“And Frieda? Where is she?” Gustus asks, obviously content with her answer, though Anya’s eyes never stop searching her, still looking for wounds. Lexa pulls out of Anya’s grasp.

“I had no choice,” she says, and Gustus’s eyes widen. “She was injured, there was nothing I could do.” Anya, acting uncharacteristically for the second time in only a few days, pulls Lexa into a hug, smoothing her hair, rocking her gently.

“You did well, my _heda_ -to-be. You did well by her.” And Lexa, tired, stressed, hungry, the fear from the last day finally catching up to her, lets herself be held, lets herself be comforted—lets herself be weak for just a moment.

* * *

“Does your Commander know how much you care for her?” Luna asks, walking up to Lexa. Her army follows behind them, hundred of men and woman, ready to fight in a war for what Luna had called ‘a more prosperous future.’ It had been a good speech, and it had made even the most reluctant of her warriors ready to fight for the Tree People. Lexa does not respond right away. Instead, she looks to her left, where Anya and Gustus walk, silent and sporting identical expressions of distrust.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You risked your life for her.”

“I risked my life for my people.” Luna grins, shrugging just a little.

“The Commander and her people are one. Isn’t that what you Tree People say? The Commander _belongs_ to her people?” She pats Lexa on the shoulder, still grinning. “Your idea, this alliance, _that_ is for your people. That you do for them. But coming yourself? Offering up your life should this not work? You do that for your Commander.” She lets out a sigh, her grin slipping just a little. “You have a bleeding heart, _Leksa kom Trikru_. It is strange for a leader, and I like that. I just wonder…how will you get through the Conclave with that heart of yours?”

“I don’t understand.” Luna’s eyes widen.

“Oh, my dear girl, do you really not know?” When Lexa shakes her head, Luna leans over to her conspiratorially, her grin gone, only the ghost of a smile left on her face. “The Conclave is a test. Every child found worthy of the Spirit is thrust together, and the one who survives becomes Commander.” She leans back, looking upset, looking almost _guilty_. “Did you truly not know?” Lexa can do nothing but shake her head, and Luna’s face crumples some more. “Dear girl, all this preparation? It’s for a slaughter.”

* * *

With the Boat Clan’s aid, it takes only months to push the Ice Nation back. Warriors from the Desert Clan ran first, escaping back to their home, unwilling to face the wrath of the combined might of the Tree People and the Boat Clan. And though the Ice Queen fought, and fought hard, it soon became clear—even to her—it was a hopeless cause.

Lexa just wishes she would surrender.

Luna has explained why the Queen would never do such a thing. “It is the ultimate weakness, a surrender. She would rather die in that village than admit defeat.” The village the Queen has taken refuge in is surrounded, her warriors unable to hold it for long. Luna suggested merely waiting it out, but _heda_ claimed that would give the Queen the wrong idea.

“Waiting is weak—it is not proactive enough. We must tear down her door and force her to surrender. She has shed too much of my people’s blood for me to merely wait out her death—I will shed every last drop of her blood.”

“What do you think, Lexa?” Luna asks, drawing her into the conversation (a conversation Lexa thinks she has no part in—since she has been back, she has done nothing but remain by _heda’s_ side, on the front lines. She has not seen Costia, and the only time she has spent with Anya was when she had a line burned into her skin, marking her first kill in battle—Frieda. Her opinion is her Commander’s opinion, she dares not say anything else).

“The Ice Queen must be punished.”

“Punished, yes, but killed? What if her people seek revenge for such an action?”

“She threatened my people,” the Commander says. “She will bleed for it— _jus drein jus daun.”_

(They do not wait her out, they attack that very day, and it takes a matter of hours before the Ice Queen—a girl only a few years older than Lexa, thin and fragile-looking, a strategist and not a warrior—is utterly defenseless, the point of the Commander’s sword at her throat. She looks afraid, she looks small, and Lexa turns away when they tie her to a post).

“The first cut is yours, Lexa,” the Commander says, handing Lexa a knife, giving Lexa an honor (for she knows that that is what this is, an _honor_ , and honor she wants no part in).

“May I speak freely?” Lexa asks, looking at her Commander, ignoring Luna’s knowing grin, ignoring the mumble of dissatisfaction from their warriors—their warriors who want to see blood, see punishment, who want _justice_ for all those that died. The Commander nods, one eyebrow raised, and Lexa swallows hard before speaking, her voice carrying to their warriors. “Someone said that the Ice Queen would rather die than surrender. Rather suffer than admit defeat. Which means killing her, bleeding her dry, would only be giving her what she wants.” The dissent from moments ago dies down, and Lexa realizes they are listening to her, their focus not on the red sash around her waist, but on her eyes, on her words. “I say, we don’t give her what she wants. I say we send her back to her people, her tail between her legs, cowed by the combined might of the Tree People and Boat Clan.” She turns her gaze to the Commander, noticing with utter relief, a small smile plays on her lips. “We let her live to serve as a reminder to anyone else who dares attack us, _heda_. She will serve as a warning.” For an entire minute, no one speaks, all their gazes on the Commander, waiting for her final say. Then, with a nod from _heda_ , the Ice Queen’s bounds are cut, and she falls to her knees.

“Your life is spared,” the Commander says. Two warriors come forward and grab her by the arms, dragging her away, but the Commander is no longer interested in her. She walks over to Lexa, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You lie well, Lexa. That is good.” She pats Lexa’s shoulder a few times and walks off, leaving her alone with Luna, who is grinning.

“I knew it, _Leksa kom Trikru_ ,” she says, her arms crossed over her chest. “A bleeding heart is always so much easier to break. But don’t worry—I will keep your secret.” She winks, leaving as well, and Lexa remains by the wooden post, alone, her face a mask of calm.

* * *

When they arrive in Polis, it is to celebrations.

Lexa weaves through the crowded streets, unable to help but hear the stories that are passed around: how the Commander’s favorite brought reinforcements, how she then humiliated the Ice Queen, giving them a far greater revenge than a mere execution, how Luna of the Boat Clan swore to be allies for some time yet, meaning that she removed a threat.

How Lexa, the Commander’s favorite, outshone all other warriors—how she is a hero, how she will be the greatest _heda_ the _Trigedakru_ ever had.

(All of it is a lie, of course. No one speaks of Frieda, who Lexa killed, or how Luna seemed unstable at best, or how the Commander’s favorite did not humiliate the Ice Queen, but saved her life because she had a _bleeding heart_. All of it is a lie, and Lexa just wants to find Rox and Costia, to be with people who do not see her as a hero or the _heda_ -to-be).

She finds Rox first. He is sitting on the ground, _Tris_ by his side (so much older, so grown since Lexa last saw her), the two of them eating sweets made specially for the celebration. He smiles sadly when he sees her, and Tris gets to her feet shyly, looking only at the sash around her waist.

“I’m Lexa, you may not remember me, but I—”

“—that is the _heda_ -to-be, Tris,” Rox interrupts. “I spoke of her, right?” Tris nods, and she bows respectfully, and Lexa can do nothing but stand there in shock.

“Rox—”

“I am trying to protect you, please understand that,” he says, his smile fading. “I am doing this for you.” Tris, clearly confused, looks from Lexa to Rox and then back again.

“What is going on?” she asks. Lexa swallows hard, scratching absently at the mark on her skin, the mark that indicated her kills (one, for _Frieda,_ her friend), and she clears her throat.

“I trained with Rox for a while, before I came to Polis. I met you then.” Tris smiles immediately.

“It is an honor to meet the _heda_ -to-be. I’ve heard incredible things about you. I hope to be half as good as you one day. I want to be a warrior.”

“Healing and farming is just as important, Tris. It is _far_ more honorable to grow life and provide for others than it is to take life.” Rox, clearly recognizing their father’s words, looks down, but Tris nods, her eyes bright and full of an adoration Lexa does not deserve. “Enjoy the festivities,” she manages to say before turning away and walking hurriedly towards the Commander’s home—towards _her_ home, her future home, the only place she is _allowed_ to call home.

When she makes it to the Commander’s garden, hoping to be comforted by the strong scent of the flowers, she instead finds Costia, laying back on the grass, her eyes on the sky.

“I thought you died,” Costia says without preamble, sitting up and turning to Lexa. “You said you would be back soon, and when you weren’t—”

“There were complications.”

“Frieda?”

“Dead.” Costia bites her lip, as if debating whether or not to ask, but then she stops and she gets to her feet, stepping over to Lexa. She reaches out hesitantly, and wipes the stray tear rolling down Lexa’s cheek with her thumb. “She is my first mark,” Lexa admits, her voice breaking. Costia leans forward, letting Lexa rest her forehead against the other girl’s, the two of them completely silent except for their soft breathing and the occasional sob from Lexa. After a while, Lexa reaches up, wrapping her arms around Costia’s waist, pulling her closer, and Costia immediately responds, holding Lexa in a tight embrace, as if she could never bear to let go.

“It is all right not to be all right,” she murmurs, clutching Lexa to her, one hand wrapped around Lexa’s back, the other at Lexa’s neck. “You have me. Please don’t bear it all on your own.” Lexa pulls back slightly, meeting Costia’s eyes—eyes that are brimming with unshed tears, tears that are for _her_ , and for whatever reason, Lexa feels less alone for the first time in months (less alone since she left Costia to speak with the Boat Clan). “Lexa, you have me,” she repeats, looking at her earnestly, as if she needs Lexa to understand.

“I am not all right.” The words are so quiet that it is a wonder Costia even heard her. “But I have you,” Lexa says, and without allowing herself the time to think it through (because she can hear all of Gustus and Anya’s warnings, and the truth about the Commander’s past is on the forefront of her mind, but she is alone—so very alone—and all she has is Costia), she leans forward, closing the last few inches of distance between them, and presses her lips to Costia’s.

(And they are as soft as they look). 

* * *

She is late for training with Anya—“Training does not end just because the war did, Lexa,” she chided when Lexa complained—and she runs through the Commander’s home, searching for her sword, when she hears Gustus yell.

“It is getting _worse_!” he cries. Lexa stops, looking into the room, noticing the Commander is sitting on a chair, leaning forward and breathing heavily, and Gustus is staring at Costia’s father. “It is getting _worse_ ,” he repeats, his voice dangerously low.

“I told you it would. I told you she would need to rest, but she went to—”

“—enough,” the Commander mutters, her chest still heaving. “How much longer?”

“It is hard to say, _heda_. Convulsions come next. Then delirium, then—”

“I know the symptoms already. I want to know _how long_.” But before the healer can respond, _heda_ begins to cough, pressing a cloth to her mouth, making a loud hacking noise. When the coughing finally stops, she pulls the cloth away.

It comes back red.

“ _Heda—_ ”Lexa starts, but something hard and heavy hits her in the back of the head, and her entire world goes black.

 

 


	8. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She smiles wildly, unabashedly, and she is transformed, for a moment, looking utterly healthy. “And you, oh you child, you are strong, brave, and selfless, but you are also kind, decent, good. These are not things I can teach you, these are things that are already in you.”

**Fifteen**

She breathes in deeply, relishing the cold air’s attack on her lungs, jolting her awake and keeping her clearheaded. _(“Have you heard?” the people ask in the streets)._ She takes another breath, dispelling her thoughts, wiping her mind clean of the fear that plagues her. Her nose is so cold that she no longer feels it, her gloveless hands stiff and frozen. _(“Have you heard?” the people ask in the streets of Polis, the quiet, desolate,_ mourning _streets. “Have you heard the Commander is ailing?”)._ Lexa rubs her hands together, generating meager warmth, a weak attempt at encouraging blood flow to her fingers, to bring feeling back to them. A part of her does not mind the cold, a part of her _revels_ in it—after all, it matches the sensation taking hold in her chest, matches the pervasive iciness of her no longer beating heart. _(“Have you heard?” the people ask in the streets of Polis, their voices soft, their tones broken. “Have you heard the Commander is dying?”)._

 _(Yes,_ Lexa wants to cry back. _Yes. I watch as it happens)._

* * *

She spends less and less time training. At first, it was to help with small things—travel to villages nearby, participate in ceremonies in the Commander’s stead, help settle petty disputes. But soon the Commander can barely walk, pale and withering away, only her striking grey eyes still bearing any resemblance to the warrior—the leader—she once was.

“There is no reason for you to stare, child,” she says one night, not touching her food, not touching the book Lexa brought for her. “If I am to die, I will die. Your gaze will neither hurry this along nor bring it to a halt.”

“Please eat, _heda_ ,” Lexa says, ignoring the one word in the Commander’s comment that made her feel as if she were outside again, struggling not to fall apart in the cold. “Keep up your strength.” The Commander huffs, rolling her eyes and leaning back in her chair.

“You are being weak, Lexa.”

“I just don’t want you to die.”

“We _all_ die, child,” she snaps, clearly at the end of her patience, and Lexa swallows, looking away—averting her eyes. “We all die, but death is not the end. My Spirit will find you, and I live on through you.”

“That is not enough,” Lexa says, feeling bold, brave, _rebellious_. But the Commander just seems annoyed.

“It never is, Lexa,” she says, getting to her feet shakily. “But we must all accept that which we cannot change.”

“I do not wish to accept it.” The Commander slams her fists on the table, her eyes wide, something in them that Lexa fears—acceptance of the inevitability of her death.

“You have no choice!” she snaps, at wit’s end. “I will die and you will be the Commander. Come to terms with that fact now, Lexa. Whether or not you like it, that is exactly what will happen.” She shakes her head, her chest heaving from exertion. “You are being weak.”

“You once said that I didn’t need to hide my weakness.”

“Yes, from me. But I am dying, child,” she says with a mirthless smile. “It is time you get used to the hiding.” She walks away, not looking back once, and Lexa shakes with rage, with terror, with _agony_ , not speaking as the Commander shuffles away.

(She is bedridden the very next week, suffering through convulsions several times a day).

Lexa refuses to train anymore, spending all her time by the Commander’s bedside, reading to her, speaking with her, pretending as if nothing is wrong. And the Commander, selfless as always, gives Lexa what she needs—a sense of normalcy, putting up an act, playing make-believe, never once breaking script.

“Of all the books you’ve read, _heda_ , which is your favorite?” The Commander turns her head, and Lexa pretends she does not see the sheen of sweat on her brow, pretends she does not notice the gauntness of her face, focusing everything on the strained smile.

“There is a story, one that I read when I first became _heda_ , that has stuck with me.” Her smile widens and she turns to look at the ceiling, her eyes seeming glassy, unfocused, sad. “The Mice and the Cats were at war, and the Mice gathered together to discuss why they always seemed to lose.” She pauses briefly to cough, and Lexa pretends she does not notice the blood at the corner of her Commander’s mouth. “The Mice decided it was the lack of clear leadership that led to their defeat, so they made their captains wear straw headgears, to mark them as leaders in battle.” She turns back to look at Lexa, her smile gone. “When they go to battle against the Cats again, they lose once more, and the Mice flee back down their holes. Except for the leaders—the captains. Their straw headgears prevented them from escaping, and they were devoured by the Cats.” She laughs, raising one eyebrow. “Appropriate, no?”

“ _Heda_ , I—”

“—yes, yes, I know we don’t wear straw headgear. But the concept is the same.” She laughs again, sounding positively mad. “Being _heda_ is a great honor, and it leads us to our graves.”

(This marks the onset of fevers and delirium, and more often than not, the Commander is not lucid, spending much of the time she is awake seeing and speaking with people that have long since died. She breaks out of the hallucinations only to turn to Lexa with wide eyes, parted lips, begging for water and shaking her head frantically. “Who you are now must die when you become _heda_ ,” she says between sips, not paying any heed to Lexa’s attempts to settle her back into bed. “Better to die than to lose yourself.” And she slips back into her deliriums, no longer aware of Lexa’s presence).

Lexa watches helplessly as she grows worse each day, watches helplessly as her Commander, her _heda_ , withers away. Her death is fast approaching, Lexa _knows_ it is because the Elders, the generals, even Anya and Gustus, are preparing for the others chosen by the Spirit to arrive, preparing for the Conclave, and all the while Lexa sits by her Commander’s bedside, grasping her hand, trying (and failing) to control the flow of tears that stream down her cheeks.

 _It is weakness_ , she reminds herself _, it is weakness_ (but not in front of her _heda_ , never in front of her). 

“Oh Lexa, you should be training,” she mumbles, lucid for the first time in days, seemingly in a daze. “You must prepare for the Conclave.”

“This is more important, _heda_.”

“It is more important that you become _heda_. You are—”

“—the rain after a drought, yes, Commander, I know.” Lexa blinks back tears, gazing into the grey eyes of her _heda_ , her chest constricting and making it hard to breathe. She swallows back tears, swallows back her pain, and tries to give the Commander her most comforting smile. She knows she has failed when worry creeps into the Commander’s weary expression.

“No, you must know what you are to me.” Lexa says nothing, and the Commander tightens her grip on Lexa’s hand, her eyes watering (it is the first time she has seen her Commander cry, the first time that the strong, brave, and selfless woman has shown such vulnerability, and Lexa can no longer quell her own tears). “Have I ever told you how you were chosen?” She coughs, heaving briefly before focusing her eyes back on Lexa. “We had no reason to pass by your village that day, but I decided a detour would not matter. You were among a group of children, very clearly the youngest and smallest, and you all were arguing.” She smiles, as if this is a fond memory. “One of the bigger boys had broken something of value of the healer’s, and he was trying to convince one of you to take the blame, even going as far as threatening another boy.” Her eyes and voice take on a dreamy quality, as if she is no longer in Polis, but outside of Lexa’s village, transported through time and space. “And then you, small, the only one not arguing, just walked away. And I watched as you went to the healer’s home and confessed to a crime that was not yours. Selfless, brave, and strong, even at the age of six.”

“ _Heda_ —”

“There are some things we learn, child,” she continues, ignoring Lexa. “Things we can be taught. And there are some things we are born with, things that are innately ours.” She smiles wildly, unabashedly, and she is transformed, for a moment, looking utterly healthy. “And you, oh you child, you are strong, brave, and selfless, but you are also kind, decent, _good_. These are not things I can teach you, these are things that are already in you.”

“You’re wrong, _heda_ ,” Lexa says, her voice thick. “I killed Frieda and Glen. I betrayed Costia. I am not good.” The Commander releases Lexa’s hand and reaches out to cradle her face, wiping her tears away with her thumbs.

“I am not wrong. Because even now, what you have done pains you, haunts you.” She releases Lexa, her lower lip trembling. “I have condemned you to this life, and there is no greater sin, there is nothing I regret more.”

“ _Heda_ —”

“Because you are not just my successor or my salvation. You are not just the rain after a drought. You are my _goufa_ , my _yongon_ , and child, I have caused you much pain, and I leave you with nothing but the promise of more suffering.” Her chest is heaving, clearly exhausted from the exertion of speaking so long, but she is not done. “I regret the future I leave you with, but I cannot regret meeting you, knowing you.” She smiles, and it is lachrymose, is it heartbreaking, and it does not reach her eyes. “You are my pride and joy, Lexa. You are the one good thing that has happened to me since I became _heda_.” She closes her eyes. “The one good thing,” she repeats softly, shaking her head slightly.

“Please,” Lexa mumbles. “Please, _heda_. Please don’t leave me alone. You said you would stay. You said you would not leave. Please don’t turn into a liar now. _Please_.”

“Harden your heart, child,” she says without opening her grey eyes, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “You will be great.”

(She falls asleep soon afterwards, and several days later, without having woken up again, her chest stops rising and falling, and she slips away).

(Lexa is there when it happens, and with dry eyes and steady hands, she cuts one of the Commander’s braids, pocketing it).

(Lexa is there when it happens, and though her icy heart feels like it has shattered into a million pieces, she merely nods when she is told the Commander’s body will be taken to the pyre, merely watches as the body is burned, as the people of Polis mourn, the steady beat of drums filling the streets, vendors closed, children acting morose, intuitively knowing something terrible has happened. Lexa merely watches as the others chosen by the Spirit stare at her threateningly, with poorly disguised expressions of absolute hatred. She merely goes through the motions as the world says goodbye to the greatest woman she has ever known).

“ _Yu gonplei ste odon, heda_ ,” the people who have gathered around the pyre cry out in unison, all of them holding their weapons to the chest in signs of respect, heads inclined.

Lexa merely watches the pyre burn, keeping utterly silent.

* * *

“They will go after you first, Lexa. They know you as Isolde’s favorite.”

“ _Heda_ ,” Lexa corrects. Gustus closes his eyes, shaking his head patiently.

“She is gone, child, and her title died with her. There is no _heda_ until the Conclave is complete.” Lexa does not respond and Gustus sighs, looking more than a little frustrated. “Find high ground, water. There are only eight of you.”

“There were more,” Lexa says tonelessly.

“They died. Illness, weakness, the war.” He gives her what he thinks is a comforting smile. “You are far better trained, smarter, more experienced than any of them. This should be easy for you.”

“Yes, I merely have to kill seven people.” Gustus’s face falls at her words, looking perturbed.

“She chose you, Lexa. Do not dishonor her by giving up now. Do not let _heda_ down.” Lexa clamps her eyes shut, fighting back hot tears. She frantically pushes away the feelings that wash over her, threatening to overwhelm her, and then meets Gustus’s eyes levelly, her expression cool and composed despite the clawing at her heart (a heart she was instructed to harden, though never taught _how_ ).

“I would never let the Commander down.”

“Lexa…” He trails off, reaches out, and places his hand on top of her head, the once comforting gesture just settling heavily. “ _Ste yuj._ All will be well.” Lexa nods, but she knows that this is yet another lie.

* * *

She breathes in deeply, relishing the cold air’s attack on her lungs, jolting her awake and keeping her clearheaded. _(“Have you heard?” people ask in the streets)._ She takes another breath, dispelling her thoughts. Her nose is so cold that she no longer feels it, and despite the gloves on her hands, her fingers are stiff and frozen. _(“Have you heard?” people ask in the streets of Polis, in time with the beating of the drums, the blaring of the horns. “Have you heard the Commander is dying?”)._ Lexa shifts against the tree, pulling her knees up closer to her chest, trying fruitlessly to keep warm without starting a fire. _(“Have you heard?” the people ask in the streets of Polis, their voices weak, their tones terrified. “Have you heard the Commander is dead?”)._

 _(Yes,_ Lexa wants to cry, her chest aching, her eyes burning, feeling as though something has been ripped right out of her, leaving her vacant, empty, a shell. _Yes_ , she wants to cry, to shout, to scream. _I watched as it happened)._

She hears the distant sound of metal clanging on metal, and she realizes at least two of her enemies have run into each other. She has learned their names (she has no idea how or when that happened, just that it did and she can do nothing to change it). Tara, Blaze, Rhett, Dez, Artemis, Lux, and Hera. Seven mere _children_ , like her, thrust together to fight for an honor they should not want. Sighing lightly, Lexa pulls out her knife, grasping it tightly as she leans her head back against the tree, her eyes on the stars she can see between the branches. She lets herself, for just a moment, get lost in a dream, thinking about a life in the heavens, far away from the bloodshed and loss of her world. She lets herself, for nothing more than a brief moment, wonder about a life beyond the one she knows. And it is beautiful, and it is heartbreaking.

_I regret the future I leave you with, but I cannot regret meeting you, knowing you._

Lexa swallows hard, blinking back tears, turning away from the sky. How foolish to think the Commander would stay. How childish to believe in promises. Everything is merely empty words, everything is merely a lie. _(You should have known better_ , she tells herself. _You should have known so much better)._

The clanging stops and Lexa realizes their count has gone from eight to seven, and she settles even further into the tree, pressing herself to the bark, hidden by the darkness. Footsteps draw closer and the winner of the battle comes within view. It is Artemis, a girl with a larger build than Lexa, only a year or so younger, and her hands are coated with something ( _blood_ ), her knife glinting in the moonlight. Lexa must be hidden quite well because Artemis does not even pause—keeps moving, her footsteps noisy, drawing the attention of everything within a twenty-foot radius. _She is stupid_ , Lexa thinks to herself. _She would make a terrible_ heda _._

 _Harden your heart child. You will be great_.

She gets to her feet carefully, her movements sure and silent, and she follows the bigger girl, completely unbeknownst to her. And when Artemis stops, clearly worn out, she does not remember to keep her back to a tree, and it takes only moments for Lexa to sneak up behind her. It takes only moments for the count to go down from seven to six.

Lexa returns to her tree, her hands slick with blood, and she collapses onto the ground, pulling her knees to her chest, taking deep breaths of the cold night air, reveling in the attack on her lungs. _Heda_ believed she reeked of the blood of the lives she tore apart, and now, Lexa realizes with a mirthless laugh, she reeks as well. It is appropriate, it is logical, it is necessary.

 _Harden your heart, child_. _You will be great_.

Lexa turns her attention back to the sky, feeling silly for her thoughts before. There was no other world but this one. There was no life beyond the bloodshed and loss of her own. Hoping for anything beyond what she lives is fruitless and pointless, an utter waste of time. She is to be _heda_ —she has no time for hopes and dreams.

* * *

In the morning, she discovers three dead bodies (Hera, Lux, and Dez, she thinks, the three of them somehow both unfamiliar and a reflection of herself). Six has dropped to three, and Lexa knows she can settle down to wait, wait for Rhett and Tara to come after her before they try to finish off each other. (As Gustus said, after all, _she_ was the Commander’s favorite, _she_ is the one they will target).

She does not have to wait long. Merely an hour later, she hears the bustling of branches being pushed aside, the sound of leaves crunching beneath a heavy foot (Rhett, she thinks, the footsteps too heavy for Tara’s nimble and light movements). “Well, well, well,” Rhett says as he approaches her, twirling his knife between his fingers—the same knife Lexa has tucked into her belt, the same knife they were all given before being sent off into the forest, the _only_ thing they were given before being sent off to die. “Tara! I found her!” Lexa does not turn around when she hears the bustling behind her, indicating Tara’s presence. She continues to stare at Rhett, at the small smile playing at his lips. “So, you are the one Isolde loved.”

“ _Heda_ ,” Lexa corrects mechanically. Tara laughs from behind her, but Rhett (so similar to Glen, except for his dark eyes, completely different from Glen’s kind, sweet ones, eyes never meant to see the horrors of their world, eyes that _Lexa_ shut permanently) merely frowns.

“She is dead. There is no _heda_.” Lexa refuses to respond to Tara’s taunt and after a moment, Rhett steps forward, shaking his head in bewilderment. 

“I did not even know I was chosen by the Spirit until two weeks ago, when they said Isolde was dying. But I hear you’ve known since the day you were chosen. You’ve been told that you are to be _heda_.”

“I _am_ to be _heda_ , Rhett,” Lexa says calmly. Tara snorts.

“The Conclave decides who is to be the Commander. Not you, and certainly not some dead woman.” Lexa takes a deep breath of the frigid air, relishing the cold’s attack on her lungs, the burning sensation jolting her awake, keeping her clearheaded.

“You don’t understand,” Lexa says, her voice still soft, still calm. “The Conclave is not about you. The test is mine, and I do not fail _heda’s_ tests.”

“She is _dead_ ,” Rhett snaps, slashing his knife through the air like a petulant child. “She is dead, and soon you will join her.” Tara grabs her from behind, twisting one arm behind her back, pressing her knife to Lexa’s throat, holding her tightly, waiting for Rhett to run her through.

“This is a test,” Lexa mutters. “I do not fail _heda’s_ tests.” She hunches over abruptly, slamming her elbow into Tara’s stomach, knocking the wind out of her, shocking her enough that she loosens her grip. Free to move, Lexa blocks Rhett’s attack easily, slamming her forearm into his, grabbing the arm and twisting it until she hears a crack and he releases the knife with a cry of pain. Unfortunately, Lexa underestimated the amount of time Tara would be winded, because before she has the chance to finish Rhett off, she feels the girl jump onto her back, tackling her to the ground, Tara rolling off her the second they hit the icy dirt, not giving Lexa the chance to hit her again. Instead, before Lexa has the chance to pull out her knife, Tara is on her feet, kicking her repeatedly in the side, forcing Lexa to curl into a ball to avoid damage to her vital organs. She endures the heavy pummeling for a minute more, waiting for her chance, and then it comes: Tara’s kick lingers a second too long, and Lexa reaches out, grabs her leg and pulls, bringing her to the ground. Without giving herself any time to recover from the blows to her side, Lexa scrambles up, pulls out her knife, and straddles Tara, holding the knife above her heart, using her knees to pin the girl’s arms down.

“Do it then,” the girl spits, and Rhett—cradling his broken arm—has collapsed against a tree, watching them, waiting. “You want to be _heda_ , don’t you?” The question is rhetorical, and Lexa snorts.

“You still don’t understand. I _am_ _heda_. But I never wanted to be.” Without giving herself time to think, she brings the knife down, and Tara’s mouth falls open, her head lolling to the side.

“She could have chosen any of us, you know,” Rhett says as Lexa gets to her feet shakily, walking over to him. “Two weeks ago, when I was told I’d been chosen by the Spirit, my mentor told me I’d been chosen to die. But not you,” he laughs, the sound mirthless. Lexa crouches in front of him, her eyes on the arm he would never be able to use again. He is no threat, she knows that (he knows that). She could leave him here, let him take his chances on his own.

“Becoming _heda_ is a death sentence. Just as sure as yours.” He grins, letting his head fall back against the tree. _Harden your heart, child_. _You will be great_. Lexa bites her lip and looks away as she slides her blade between his ribs, listening to that final gasp, listening as he expels his last breath, and then she gets to her feet, trembling. “I am not sorry,” she mumbles to Rhett and Tara’s still bodies. “I am not sorry because I saved you. You will suffer no more.” She lets out a crazed laugh, shaking her head. “ _Yu gonplei ste odon.”_ Then, without looking back once, she shuffles away.

* * *

The Elders consist of the oldest citizens of Polis, half a dozen men and women who advise _heda_ for as long as she needs them (usually when she is young, first chosen), and are in charge of the Conclave, ensuring a smooth transition between Commanders. Lexa meets the Elders for the first time after she walks out of the forest, hands stained with blood, lungs filled with cold air.

“They are all dead?” the Elder to the farthest right, the oldest woman Lexa has ever seen, with white hair, a wrinkled face, a hunched back, ask primly. Lexa nods stiffly, meeting the woman’s pale eyes without fear. The woman nods back, and a young warrior, standing with his head inclined, immediately sets off, clearly to make sure Lexa is not lying, clearly to make sure there are seven dead bodies in the forest. “Isolde was right about you, Lexa,” the woman continues, her voice grating and thick. Lexa wonders how many Commanders she has seen die. “The Conclave merely proved what she already knew.”

“What now?”

“You will be introduced to your people as their _heda_. They will watch as the Spirit moves to you.” Lexa swallows at the answer, but remains expressionless, pretending she does not feel her racing heart, pretending there is no tightness to her chest, pretending, pretending, pretending…

_It is time you get used to the hiding._

They do not wait much longer, the warrior rushes back, staring at Lexa curiously as he mutters something in the Elder’s ear. There is silence after he straightens and stands back, a silence that goes on for far too long for Lexa to feel comfortable.

“You are different, _Leksa kom Trikru.”_ She expects the Elder to say more, but is instead met with more silence.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I do not yet know.” She turns, motioning for Lexa to follow her. For the first time, Lexa is thankful for the woman’s age; she walks slowly, setting a leisurely pace that does not make the ache of her most likely broken ribs worse. “First, we will take you to a healer, as you are injured.” Lexa nods, flushed with a sense of relief. “Then you will rest.” She gives Lexa a small smile. “And tomorrow, you will be named _heda_ , child. Tomorrow, you will be given to your people.”

* * *

She walks the halls of the Commander’s home, scratching occasionally at her bandages, avoiding the three most recent marks burned onto her skin (the marks that join Frieda’s physical one and Glen’s emotional one).

(The thought that it is not the Commander’s home, not anymore—that she will never read with the older woman in the library again, will never walk past her and stifle a laugh when she pulls a face, will never have her meals with her, sitting on opposite ends of the long table, will never _see_ her again—crosses her mind and she roughly pushes the offending thought away, clenching her jaw, breathing deeply through her nose).

As she passes by the Commander’s quarters, masochistic enough to see the room in which the older woman had died, she notices that people are milling about. Lexa frowns and steps forward.

“What are you doing?” she asks the first person she sees, a young girl—one of the Commander’s aides, the one she stole clothes from so long ago so that she would blend in when she ran through the streets of Polis with Costia, when she snuck out to swim in the lake.

“We are cleaning the room for you,” she answers, looking at Lexa like the response should have been obvious. For a second, Lexa can do nothing but stare blankly—first at the girl and then at the room—but then she feels white, hot rage consume her.

“No!” She rushes forward, grabbing the stack of books one of the aides was removing from the room and carries it back to the spot it came from. “Don’t touch anything. Leave this be.”

“But _heda_ —”

“Get out! Leave! Now!” The aides incline their heads and swiftly walk away, whispering amongst themselves, but Lexa cannot bring herself to care. She cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot feel anything other than a fierce desire to _leave this be_. Her legs feel like jelly and she collapses onto the edge of the Commander’s bed, smoothing out the blankets and furs, knowing the last time she was here—the last time she sat by this bed—was when the Commander was dying, when she spoke her last words: _Harden your heart, child. You will be great._

“They were preparing this room for you, Lexa. There was no need to yell at them.” She does not look up at her mentor’s voice, instead, she looks down, hiding her weakness ( _It is time you get used to the hiding)._

“I am happy with the room I have.”

“But that is not _heda’s_ quarters.”

“And I am not _heda_.” She means that she is not the Commander, she is not the woman who raised her, the woman who was so strong, so brave, so very selfless. And Anya, her mentor, her sister, her friend, understands this immediately. 

“It is all right to cry, Lexa,” she says softly, kneeling in front of Lexa, taking her hands in her own. “It is all right to shed tears for the Commander.”

“I become _heda_ tomorrow, I must be strong.”

“I know, my little—” She stops, her nickname for Lexa no longer appropriate. “I know, Lexa,” she says, starting over.  “But you are also a girl who has just lost the closest thing she had to a mother. So it is all right to cry.” Lexa feels her eyes well up with hot tears, but rather than blink them away, she lets them fall, rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto her hand. Without letting herself think about it, she leans forward, accepting Anya’s embrace, burying her face in her mentor’s shoulder.

“How will I do this without her?” she asks weakly, clutching at Anya.

“Death is not the end, Lexa. Her Spirit is with you, she lives on in you.”

“Do you promise?” she asks, sounding so much like a child that she cringes. “Do you promise?”

“I swore I would never lie to you, child,” she says, holding Lexa tighter, not mentioning the tears that must be soaking through her shirt. “Her Spirit is with you, I promise.”  

* * *

She sneaks out of Polis, a bag tossed over her shoulder. The trip, on foot, takes no more than three hours, but she knows she must be back in Polis before the sun rises, so she moves as quickly and as silently as she can, knowing what she is doing is stupid—knowing that she is not starting off her time as _heda_ too brilliantly.

But she does not care, she _has_ to do this.

She is sweating by the time she arrives at her destination, sweating despite the cold, and she shivers with every gust of icy wind. Rubbing her hands together, she sets about starting a fire, sitting in front of it to warm her frozen toes and fingers. When she is warm again, feeling returning to her extremities, she turns her attention to the ruins of the village. Even in the dark—only illuminated by the moonlight and Lexa’s small fire—she can see the remnants of small metal huts, can see a partially burned down cabin, and she finds herself smiling. It reminds her of her own home, of mornings spent with her father, talking about farming and the honor in it, afternoons spent chasing butterflies with the other children and collecting flowers for her mother.

It reminds her of a simpler time, a time before her hands were stained red and her heart was tattered and torn into shreds.

But this is not her own home, she forcibly reminds herself, her smile slipping. This is a burned down village, a village overrun by the wisteria vine. No flowers grow now, the winter cold and harsh, but once spring arrives, Lexa is sure the smell will be overwhelming—forever hiding the terrible things that happened here, forever hiding the ugly story of why the village was burned to the ground, its people still in it.

_My only wish is to be buried in my village after my fight is finally over, among all those flowers._

With a laugh that sounds much more like a choked sob, Lexa pulls out the braid she cut, and using her fingers, she digs a small hole in the dirt, reverently burying the lock of hair before getting to her feet and fighting back sobs.

“I know this is not what you had in mind, _heda_ ,” she says, tears blurring her vision. “But it is the best I could do. A part of you will be buried in your village, among the flowers you loved so.” She swallows hard, feeling ridiculous, speaking to herself in the middle of the night. “I loved you,” she whispers, even now—alone, no one to witness her weakness—the words come with difficulty. She closes her eyes, wiping her cheeks, knowing that this is the last time she can shed a tear for her _heda_ , her Commander. _You are my_ goufa _, my_ yongon, she had said, and Lexa finds it in her to smile. “You were my _nomon_ , and I loved you, _heda_. _Yu gonplei ste odon_.”

_I meant that you bring beauty to the world. That my stench will be hidden by your sweetness. Do you understand? You are my salvation._

_No,_ Lexa would respond now. _You were mine_.

* * *

Anya helps her with the warpaint, streaking it down her cheeks (“Why? Why does the Commander wear it differently?” Lexa had asked as Anya worked, and her mentor clicked her tongue with impatience as she responded: “It is the symbol of the tears _heda_ sheds for her people”). They also begin working on her tattoos, telling her the process was long and would take several sessions. Gustus is the one who fastens the shoulder guard, who ties the red cloth (the fabric meant to symbolize blood) onto it, so that it flows behind her.

And when she goes out to meet her people for the first time as their _heda_ , there are drums beating, fast and frenzied, much different from the slow beat of when the Commander died. People scream and shout, there is whistling and children laugh as candies and fruits and toys are passed around. But Lexa, Lexa feels an impossible weight settle on her shoulders, physically forcing her to hunch.

“Ah,” the Elder says, the woman with the white hair and wrinkled skin. There is a sad, knowing smile on her face. “The Spirit has moved into you. You feel it, yes?” Lexa can do nothing but nod, and the woman’s sad smile grows even sadder. “You are all grown up, _Leksa kom Trikru_. You are _heda_ now.”

Lexa takes a deep breath, the air slightly warmer now, spring fast approaching, even the faint scent of flowers meeting her nostrils. _(“Have you heard?” the people ask in the streets)._ She takes another breath, smiling as a group of children rush by, bowing respectfully, screaming ‘Thatis _heda!_ ’ _(“Have you heard?” the people ask in the streets of Polis, the joyful, loud, crowded streets. “Have you heard about the Commander’s favorite?”)._ Lexa stares at her people, people she is now responsible for, people she now belongs to. _(“Have you heard?” the people ask in the streets of Polis, their voices proud, their tones gleeful. “Have you heard the Commander’s favorite, the hero of the_ Trikru _, has become_ heda?”).

 _(Yes,_ Lexa says with them. _Yes. I am_ heda _now)._

 


	9. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What would you do, heda?” she whispers, allowing her uncertainty, her fear, her worries bubble out of her as her eyes fall on the spot she had last seen the Commander alive. “Would you go to war as Luna says? I need your help.”

**One**

Lexa licks her parched lips, eying the cup in front of her warily, unwilling to take it yet unwilling to push it away. Even though she is indoors—in the war room, the room Isolde spent so much time in, the very walls still permeating with her presence, her voice still lingering, still echoing around the room, as if she never left—the heat is suffocating and stifling. She wipes the sweat off her forehead and neck, then sits back, her eyes still on the cup yet her attention on the woman sitting across from her.

“My people are dying, _heda_ ,” she says, leaning back in her chair as well, eyebrows raised. From the corner where she stands, one hand on her sword, Anya growls threateningly, its menace losing a bit of its power due to the exhaustion from the pervasive and unyielding heat. Thus, Luna is unaffected.

“My people are dying as well, Luna. You forget, this is an alliance—what I have is yours and what you have is mine,” Lexa says, not giving the woman the chance to snap back at Anya.

“Then how do you plan on fixing this?” Luna asks, snapping at Lexa instead. She eyes her own untouched cup as well, desire and reluctance in her eyes. “Will you be like Isolde, content to bear all, lashing out when personally affronted, or will you be like the other clan leaders, attacking to get what you need?” Lexa sighs, crossing her legs and leaning even further back in the Commander’s—no, _her—_ chair. (She is Commander now, she reminds herself for the millionth time. She is Commander now.)

“What would you have me do?”

“I don’t know, Lexa. I am here to confer with you.”

“You’re here to convince me to plunge our people into another war.” From the back, Anya snorts in agreement, and Luna scowls.

“Yes, perhaps, but our people are dying of thirst while you sit and do nothing.” Lexa sighs once more, looking away from the cup and meeting Luna’s eyes, chuckling lightly. “This amuses you?”

“No, it is just that…Isolde used to say that I was the rain after a drought. I think she would appreciate the irony of our situation.”

“I do not find it amusing or ironic that it has not rained since you became _heda_ , Lexa. I find it troublesome.”

“Don’t tell me you believe the rumors, Luna.” At the woman’s surprised look, Lexa finds herself letting out a laugh. “You thought I wouldn’t hear? The whispers are not as quiet as you’d like to think they are.” She gives Luna a lazy smile, exuding a self-confidence she does not feel. “I imagine you would know better than to think curses exist.”

“I know that,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But our people? They may be convinced.” Anya growls again at the thinly veiled threat, but Lexa just rubs her temples with the tips of her index fingers.

“Tell me, then. Tell me what you would do.”

“I would attack the Ice Nation. Take their water. Bring an end to the rumors that the Ice Queen has holed herself up in her palace, using curses to doom your time as _heda._ ”

“You were the one who advocated sparing the Ice Queen, what has changed?”

“My people weren’t in danger then, they are now. This drought will not be the end of us.” Lexa swallows, knowing on some level that Luna is right, yet reluctant to fight a war just to take what she needed from a battered and beaten clan. She eyes the cup once more.

“The Valley People have water—they are near the fresh water lakes.” Luna nods, leaning forward.

“The Ice Nation would be easier to take, they are weak, the Valley People are strong—”

“No, Luna, you misunderstand. I do not plan on taking anything. Scouts have brought back reports that Reapers are overrunning the Valley People. We offer them aid—we rid them of their problem, and they give us water.” Luna frowns, something flickering in her eyes.

“What guarantees do you have that they will not use us and merely take advantage? How do you know they will part with their resource?”

“None. But I am trusting that their leader is like you, willing to see reason, willing to see less blood shed.” Luna blinks at the answer, then purses her lips.

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You have a bleeding heart, _Leksa kom Trikru_. You are strange, and I fear you do not know what that means.” She gives in, leans forward and picks up the cup, draining the water in large gulps.

Later, after Luna has gone to speak with her advisors and warriors about the plan, Lexa turns to Anya with a grim smile, motioning for her to walk as they speak, her own cup of precious water in her hand. “You think I’m being foolish, don’t you,” she states, not allowing Anya to look away and hide the truth in her eyes. They exit the Commander’s—no, _her_ —home, entering the streets of Polis, eyeing the people with dry lips and exhausted eyes.

“Yes, I do,” Anya says, her voice growing quiet. “But that does not mean you are wrong.”

“I do not want people to die over water, Anya. I don’t want a war because of a drought.” Anya purses her lips, sighing just a little.

“Oh, I know, _heda_. I know.” Lexa tries not to cringe at the title, at the honorific she is not yet used to, but she knows she has not been successful when Anya’s pursed lips turn into a slightly amused smile. “One thing I agree on with Luna is that you are strange,” she says, and Lexa does not meet her eyes as she gives her cup of water to the first thirsting child she sees, unable to quench her own desires while her people suffer so. “But that is not a bad thing.”

* * *

“Do you think Luna will agree with you?” Costia asks, looking up at Lexa, her chest heaving. She drops the sword in her hand, then collapses onto the ground, lying on her back and leaving herself completely open—much like she did the first time they met. Costia had ignored Lexa’s warnings that it was too hot to spar, but she looks like she agreed now.

“I hope she will. We’ll need their help.”

“You know the drought is not your fault, right?” Lexa blinks, only momentarily surprised that Costia would have noticed her doubts. “There is no such thing as a curse. There is a man who studies the weather. He claims that such dry seasons are common, normal.”

“What man?”

“I know you are _heda_ now, Lexa, but Isolde’s old laws still stand. I won’t put you in that position again.” Lexa raises her eyebrows, fighting off a smile.

“So you are spending time with lawbreakers again,” she says wryly, trying to be stern.

“Who said I ever stopped?”

“Costia.” The admonishment falls of deaf ears, however, because Costia just grins at Lexa, her dark eyes alight.

“I know you think it isn’t necessary for our survival and that we can’t change. But you’re wrong. You’re wrong, Lexa, but that is okay, because I would still follow you wherever you lead.” Lexa rolls her eyes, shaking her head at the mocking over-effusive tone as she kicks Costia’s foot lightly.

“With frequent detours to see men who study the weather,” Lexa mutters, and Costia snorts.

“Well, of course. I can’t change _completely_.” Lexa laughs despite herself, and she moves so that she’s sitting next to Costia, her hand brushing Costia’s fingertips.

“I never said we can’t change,” she says, feeling serious suddenly. “But Costia, I don’t think I’ll be the one who will bring about the change you want.” Instead of becoming somber and disappointed like Lexa expects, Costia’s grin only grows.

“I have faith in you, _heda_. I always have. No matter what you do, what you accomplish, you will be great.”

“You know I belong to my people. You know this, right, Costia?” It is a warning, a promise, a sort of push, but once again, Costia does not react as Lexa is expecting her to.

“I do, Lexa. But I belong to you, and that is all that matters.”

* * *

“This is not a good idea, _heda_ ,” Gustus says, crossing his arms over his chest, his look of disapproval familiar. “You are putting yourself at risk.”

“Oh Gustus, you worry too much,” Lexa says lightly, not pausing her packing. “I am _heda_ now, this is my duty.”

“Your duty is to stay alive for your people. Isolde would never have allowed you to put yourself in harm’s way like this. Send me or Anya to speak for you.” Lexa stares at him with a forced smile, pushing back the wave of despair and pain that threatens to overwhelm her at the casual mention of Isolde.

“I am _heda_ ,” she repeats. “I speak for my people.”

“Send Luna.”

“Luna is quick to jump at war. The idea of her speaking on my behalf makes me restless.”

“And you do not trust her,” Gustus guesses, and Lexa nods easily, fastening the shoulder guard, feeling its cumbersome weight, struggling beneath it.

“Luna is a good ally, she will not stand against us.” She smiles slightly. “If only because she knows she needs us.” Without allowing Gustus to see how she buckles beneath the shoulder guard—without letting him see her weakness—she shrugs awkwardly. “But she will also plunge us all into war to save her people.”

“Then she is like Isolde.” Gustus raises an eyebrow. “You like her, don’t you?”

“I do. She is clever, sure of herself, quick to do anything for her people. But she is not like Isolde.” Lexa smiles grimly, swallowing back emotion. “There are none like Isolde.”

“There are none like you, _heda_. Please, allow me or Anya to go in your stead—or at least accompany you. For protection.”

“Rox will be more than enough protection. This is a diplomatic trip, I only wish to speak with the Valley People’s leader. Bringing more warriors may send the wrong message.”

“And if something happens, Lexa?” Gustus asks, dropping the title, letting Lexa know he is now serious, now _begging_. “The Spirit is in _you_ now. You must carry it until it is time for it to move on to another.”

“I have no intention of dying, Gustus. But I will not take an army with me. Besides, you and Luna and the other warriors will only be a week behind. And Anya must stay here in Polis, take care of matters while I am gone.” Gustus opens his mouth, clearly about to argue some more, when there is a knock on the door, and Costia steps in. She is sweaty (they all are sweaty), her lips cracked and dry, a gauntness to her cheeks that was not there several days ago. More and more of the warriors were going with as little water as possible, trying to imitate their Commander, trying to ensure their people had enough to drink. (Lexa dislikes the practice, but no amount of arguing has convinced any of her warriors to cease the new habit: “You are _heda_ , we follow your example,” they said, bowing their heads, tired eyes full of a respect Lexa has not yet earned.)

“ _Heda_ , should I come back?” Costia asks carefully, looking to Gustus and then back to Lexa with wide eyes, obviously sensing the tension in the room. Lexa shakes her head.

“No. Gustus was merely expressing his worries.” She turns to him, giving him the smallest of smiles, reminiscent of the grins he would giver her during the war meetings with Isolde, when Lexa felt out of place, insignificant. “Trust me, Gustus. I know what must be done for my people, what is at stake.”

“Very well,” he says, his voice gruff. “I will tell Rox to prepare.” Lexa stifles a laugh, knowing that what he really wanted to do was lecture Rox on the multitude of dangers they were sure to come into contact with on their trip. She does not comment, however, letting him leave her the same way he came: grumbling and discontented.

“He’s right, you know. It is dangerous for _heda_ to be out alone.”

“Eavesdropping, Costia?” Lexa questions, no real bite to her tone.

“Only a little.” She steps over to Lexa’s bed, throwing herself onto it, staring up at the ceiling. “Sometimes, I wish you were not _heda_. I wish…” She trails off, looking sheepish, shaking her head violently.

“You wish what?” Lexa prods.

“I wish we could be safe. That we could run away, never look back.”

“I belong to my people.”

“I know,” Costia says, her tone snappish, annoyed. “I know,” she repeats, softer this time, laced with regret. “That’s why I said I wished.” Lexa is silent, her heart hammering in her chest, fear creeping in and invading and tainting her every thought, her every action. _It is not weakness to be afraid,_ she can hear Isolde saying, as if no time has passed at all, as if the older woman stands beside her, a hand on her shoulder, a smile on her face. _But you must never let your fear govern your actions._ Lexa sighs, abandoning her pack and moving to sit next to Costia, not daring to reach out and intertwine their fingers.

“Costia, I expect nothing from you.” The six words makes Costia turn away from the ceiling, her wide eyes on Lexa instead. She props herself up on her elbows. “There is a reason Isolde was alone, why the _heda_ is always alone.” Costia opens her mouth, but with a slight shake of Lexa’s head, she is silenced. “You say you belong to me. But I don’t want that. Do you understand? I would never ask you to give up everything for me.”

“But I want to.”

“No, Costia. I have grown up with this burden, I understand it. You don’t know what you’re asking for, what sacrifices you’re making.”

“Lexa…” But she has nothing to say, all her arguments dying on her lips. This just makes Lexa shrug.

“For whatever it’s worth, Costia, I wish too.” She leans over, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the other girl’s forehead before standing and buckling the Commander’s—no, _her_ —shoulder guard on. With one last smile at the still girl—at her gaping mouth, her wide eyes—Lexa grabs her pack and walks out the door.   _Having feelings does not make you weak, Lexa_ , she can hear Isolde say in her gentle way, with her kind grey eyes. Except, she thinks, the statement was not intended for her—it was a way for Isolde to convince _herself_ , to live with _herself_. It was a way to rationalize the fact that she had a soft spot for a child from a small village, a child she had grown to care for like she was her own. _Succumbing to them, allowing them to rule your actions,_ that _makes you weak._ Lexa understands now, can make sense of it now. After all, despite all of Isolde’s love—the little love she was still capable of feeling—she still condemned Lexa to be _heda,_ still thrust responsibility and pain onto her shoulders. _You are the one good thing that has happened to me since I became_ heda. _The one good thing._

Lexa closes her eyes, shifts directions, and walks up to the room she had studiously avoided since she noticed the aides removing Isolde’s belongings. She opens the door with some trepidation, noting that as she ordered, everything has been left alone, untouched since that day—untouched, basically, since the Commander, no _Isolde_ , was alive. She walks around the room aimlessly, letting the tips of her fingers brush against the dust covered tomes, breathing in the long since washed out scent of the woman who raised her.

 _Harden your heart, child. You will be great_.

With a sigh, Lexa takes the first book she sees—suddenly remembering how Isolde never left Polis without a book in hand, something to read even during war—and places it gently in her pack. “What would you do, _heda_?” she whispers, allowing her uncertainty, her fear, her worries bubble out of her as her eyes fall on the spot she had last seen the Commander alive. “Would you go to war as Luna says? I need your help.”

There is no answer, but then, Lexa did not expect one.

* * *

“Anya offered to train Tris while we are away,” Rox says in lieu of a greeting. He grins slightly, leading their horses by their reins, his steps sure and strong despite his cracked lips and obvious thirst. “She claims that she needs a stubborn, hotheaded second as she’s lost her last one.”

“She hasn’t lost me.”

“You’re _heda_ now,” he says, his grin widening. “Technically, Anya has no second anymore.”

“She has agreed to stay with me until I reach my eighteenth summer.”

“To give the illusion that you’ve completed your training?”

“I _have_ completed my training. I started before any of the others. She remains in Polis to advise me.” Rox looks down at her, his eyes—their mother’s eyes—boring into her knowingly, making Lexa uncomfortable.

“I understand,” he says finally, not elaborating further (but Lexa knows, knows that he _does_ understand, and somehow, she is both thrilled and terrified by that fact). “Well, shall we go, _heda_?” Lexa glares at him, offended by the honorific, offended that her brother is grinning down at her, both aware of the discomfort he was causing and not caring.

“You may be older and wiser than me, Rox, yet you are a true _branwada.”_ This makes Rox laugh, the sound loud, joyful, and Lexa realizes she has not heard it in some time—in fact, she has not heard a real laugh from him since they were children (but then, she too has not laughed in the way she used to when they chased each other among wildflowers, their mother tutting at them in exasperation).

“For shame, Lexa. What would the people say if they heard their _heda_ speaking so?”

“They would agree with me,” Lexa replies, raising her eyebrows, and Rox laughs again as he mounts his horse, not bothering to ask if Lexa wanted help as Gustus was wont to do. She feels a surge of affection for her brother, and she mounts the animal easily, taking the reins from her brother, and digging in with her heels. “Did you say goodbye to Tris?” she asks, and when he looks at her, he clearly knows what she is really asking.

“Yes,” he says softly, his grin gone, his laughter nothing but a shadow. “I did.” He pauses, as if debating whether or not to speak, but then he lets out a sigh and speaks. “Did you? Say goodbye to anyone?”  

“I am _heda_ ,” she says, echoing what he said earlier, and she focuses her eyes away from him, their horses trotting forward at a leisurely pace. “I have no one.” She thinks of Costia, of her silence, and then of Gustus and Anya and their disapproval, and she hardens her heart, ignoring her brother’s sympathetic glances her way. “ _Heda_ must always be alone.”

They do not speak until night falls and they set up camp, at which point Rox offers her a piece of dried meat that leaves Lexa regretting each bite, the food cutting into her dry throat. It is after he sits up against his pack, clearly on first watch, that he finally speaks up. “You’re not alone, Lexa.” She does not respond, and he turns his attention back to their surroundings.

* * *

“Who’s the girl?”

“Who?”

“The one you spend most of your time with. That second.” The day is hot, the sun’s rays shining unforgivingly down on their backs, and Lexa—for what felt like the thousandth time—wipes sweat from her forehead, blinking away the few drops that have fallen into her eyes. Reluctantly, she takes the waterskin Rox proffers her—the other one long since finished, half of their precious water already gone—and takes small sips, trying to alleviate the burning and throbbing of her parched throat.

“Her name is Costia.”

“Yes, but who is she?”

“A…friend, I suppose. Or she used to be.” Rox laughs, taking the waterskin back and taking a small sip himself.

“You care for her,” he says, grinning.

“What?”

“Don’t do that. I can tell, there’s that look on your face. I have it too.”

“What?” Lexa repeats, and Rox grins even wider, for the first time, looking genuinely happy.

“I met her soon after you became _heda_. Her name is Wren, and she is a healer, kind like mother, strong like father, and selfless like you. I care for her, like you care for this Costia.”

“You have a wife?” 

“Not yet. But when we get back, yes. I think I will marry her.”

“I am happy for you, _bro_. Truly. You deserve all the happiness.”

“So do you.”

“I am _heda_.”

“Ah, Lexa,” he laughs, shaking his head. “That is beginning to sound like an excuse.”

* * *

“You can read,” Rox states. It is the third night of their trip, their last night before reaching the Valley Clan’s chieftain. They lit a small fire, the night far cooler than either of them expected, and Lexa pulled out the book, reading slowly and carefully.

“ _Heda_ taught me how.”

“She was smart.”

“And brave, and strong, and selfless. She was everything I am not.”

“Your people disagree.” This makes Lexa look up in shock, the book in her hands suddenly forgotten.

“What?”

“Your people disagree,” Rox repeats, shrugging. He sighs when Lexa continues to stare at him with a confused expression and elaborates, “You forget, I live among the people of Polis. I speak with them. And they say you are the harbinger of a new age, a new life. Your alliance with Luna keeps them safer, keeps their stomachs full. And now, rather than go to war, you risk yourself to barter with the Valley Clan. Your people love you, and you have been _heda_ only for a few months.”

“There are rumors that the drought is a curse set upon me by the Ice Queen. What do my people say about that?”

“They say they pity the Ice Queen, that their _heda_ is too strong and impressive to fall to such childish tricks.” Rox leans back, his hands pillowing his head, and he stares up at the night sky. “I would say that _heda’s_ only problem is that she refuses to see what she truly is.”

“And what is that, Rox?” He is silent for so long, Lexa is sure that he will not answer. But then, as the fire dies down and their faces are hidden by the darkness, she hears him shift.

“An anomaly.”

* * *

They are surrounded by nearly a dozen men, swords drawn out, and Rox growls, his grip on his own blade tight. Lexa puts a hand on his arm, shaking her head slightly. “ _Chek au_ ,” she says. “ _Chil daun, bro_.” With a grunt, Rox lowers his weapon, and the men surrounding them follow suit.

“ _Heda Leksa_ ,” a portly man says, shuffling forward. “I have heard a great number of things about you.”

“Chieftain Gavin,” she says, standing her ground with Rox to her right. She stands tall, imitating the once regal behavior of the Commander before her, hoping her warpaint and shoulder guard are enough to hide her young age. “The Valley People keep to themselves. We hear nothing of you.”

“Ah, but you knew about our Reapers,” he chides, wagging a finger. Lexa stares blankly at him and he drops his hand, suddenly looking ruffled. With a wave of his hand, he indicates for the two of them to follow him, and they walk through the village towards the Chieftain’s home. Unlike the Tree People, the Valley Clan had limited access to lumber, thus, their homes were made of clay and straw, making the structures sturdy and cool, despite the unforgiving heat. They were a humble people, their homes packed together—small, modest and unobtrusive. Even the Chieftain’s home was no different from all the others. Lexa finds that she likes it, the equality, the sameness. “What made you begin the alliance with the Boat Clan?” Gavin suddenly asks, running his fingers through his wild hair, stopping and turning to look at Lexa carefully.

“To keep my people safe.”

“And Luna? What did she get from it?”

“What I have is hers and what she has is mine.” He nods, letting out a sigh.

“I want that as well.”

“An alliance?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “My people are proud. We live here in relative safety, free from all your wars and problems. We worry mostly about the Mountain Men.” He pauses, rubbing his eyes, and then motioning for them to enter the home, and to their right, on a table, there is a large pitcher of water. He must notice where their eyes are, because he chuckles. “Yes, yes, please drink. I need you both alive if I am to make this work.”

“Make what work?” Lexa asks, taking the cup of water Rox hands her, but not drinking.

“My people are proud, _heda_ , and they choose to suffer in silence. Food is becoming harder and harder to find, we are overrun by Reapers, and the closest village—your Tondc—refuses to send us aid anymore for fear of losing more men.”

“You have been receiving aid from Tondc?”

“Yes, of course. Did you not know?” Lexa closes her eyes, fighting to keep her frown in check.

“It slipped my mind,” she lies smoothly. “I have been out in the heat for days.” Gavin chuckles, and Lexa’s grip on her cup tightens.

“I will offer you all the water you could possibly need if only you brought my people into your alliance, convince them that it is the best option.”

“I am not their leader, you are. That is your job.”

“ _Heda_ , please.” She stares at him, at his wild hair, dark eyes, and large stomach, and she comes to a decision fairly quickly.

“Transport of the water will prove to be a challenge. I want to build a system of aqueducts, from here to Polis and beyond, to the Boat Clan.” Gavin frowns, but nods along, clearly knowing where she is going with all this. “You want an alliance with the Boat Clan and Tree People? Very well. You will receive indefinite aid from us. Food, defense, whatever you and your people may need. But in return, you will fight in our wars, you will help build the aqueducts, you will help us solve our problems. Do you understand?”

“What I have is yours, and you have is mine.” He nods quickly and violently, as if he cannot bear the weight of his responsibility any longer, eagerly anticipating the moment he can toss it onto Lexa’s shoulders. “I understand, _heda_. As long as you keep my people alive, we will do whatever you say.”

She feels the burden ease onto her back, but she refuses to buckle beneath it. Instead, she continues to stand tall, taking a small sip of water, the cool liquid giving her very little relief.

* * *

Helping the Valley People set up defenses against the Reapers was simple. Convincing them to be happy about the alliance was a little more difficult. It took days of safety, of food being brought in, before the public opinion began to change. After that, it only took a few hours to convince them to help build the aqueducts.

“You seem to have a knack for getting what you want, _heda_ ,” Luna says one afternoon, though she is grinning, clearly happy about the outcome. Lexa smiles slightly.

“Yes, it seems I do.”

“I never thought it was possible. Three Clans, at peace, working together. It is a miracle.” Lexa swallows and does not answer.

* * *

It is her first time in Tondc, and when she strolls into the village, the people fall silent. “ _Heda_ ,” they whisper. “ _Heda!”_ Some bow, others scramble about, craning their necks to look at her. But Lexa only has eyes for the woman with the short dark hair and the hard dark eyes.

“Indra,” she says, meeting the woman’s eyes unflinchingly. The regal air comes more naturally to her now, almost as if it is a second skin, an armor she never takes off.

“ _Heda_. It is an honor to have you here in Tondc.” She does not sound very honored, and Lexa wants to laugh. Instead, she fixes the woman with a cool look, raising her chin, almost lazily motioning for her to follow. There are whispers as Indra falls into step behind Lexa.

“I come with troubling news, Indra,” Lexa begins, one hand on her sword’s pommel, the other hanging limply at her side. “Gavin claims that Tondc has been sending aid to his people. Yet I was not aware of this.”

“They protect us from the Reapers—”

“I don’t care,” she says, cutting Indra off easily. “How long has this been going on?” Indra does not meet her eyes as she answers.

“Since Commander Isolde fell ill.” The implication is there, the subtle taunt, but Lexa does not rise to the bait, instead, she merely nods.

“Gavin would not have been so willing to make an alliance with us had it not been for the fact you gave him aid and then stopped. You gave him a taste of what could be, made him _want_ peace and security for his people. It is for that reason, and that reason only, that I am not killing you right now.” The words, rehearsed as she rode to Tondc, come easily, forcefully, sincerely. She has no idea if she could actually bring herself to kill the woman, but she needs Indra to _believe_ she would.

“I understand.”

“No, you do not. You cannot make such decisions. You are not _heda_ , _I_ am.” Indra’s eyes meet Lexa’s, and there is something there that was absent before. “I will not relieve you of your command of Tondc, but you will make no decisions on your own again. Anya will be spending some time here, she will ensure I am obeyed.”

“ _Heda_ ,” Indra begins, raising her chin as well, “do not doubt my loyalty. You are my Commander, I follow your lead.”

“Your word means nothing to me.” She studies Indra for a moment, studies the pride that lines her face, the stubbornness. “Anya will report back to me. When I feel I can trust you again, I will stop watching you like you are a child.” Indra flinches and looks down, the barb hitting home, cowing the older woman more than anything else Lexa has said. “Do not believe that because I am young I am naïve, Indra. I was raised by Isolde, but more importantly, raised among men and women who would rather see me die than become _heda_. And unlike the Commander before me, I will not hesitate to kill each and every one of you who dares defy me. Do we understand each other now?”

“Yes, _heda_.”

“Good. Now, let us discuss the aqueducts.” She turns away, but not before noticing the small smile that tugs at Indra’s lips.

* * *

After weeks of travel, Lexa wants nothing more than to collapse onto her bed and sleep for as long as possible, but when she enters her room, Costia is already there. Before Lexa can say a word, the girl shakes her head, taking a deep breath and speaking quickly.

“You said I didn’t understand what I was asking for, and you were right.” Lexa raises an eyebrow, but Costia plows on, clearly nervous, her fingers twitching against her thigh. “But I thought about it while you were gone, and Lexa, I still want to.” She swallows, shrugging. “If it’s a choice between having it all but not you and giving everything up but _having you_ , then it’s not a choice at all.” Her hands begin to shake. “All I want is you. Whatever that means, however much that is. Just you, Lexa. Only you.” She takes a tentative step forward, her eyes wide and worried. “Please Lexa. Don’t push me away.” Lexa is silent for a moment, her tired mind sluggishly trying to keep up.

“Are you sure?” she finally manages, and Costia nods immediately, no hesitation in her eyes or movements.

“The choice is mine, and I belong to you.” _You are making the wrong choice_ , Lexa wants to scream, to shout. But her body is no longer under her control. She feels herself take several steps closer to Costia, feels her arms wrap around the other girl, feels her face bury itself in Costia’s neck, seeking comfort, warmth, softness.

 _You are making the wrong choice_ , Lexa wants to scream, but all that comes out is a desperate, tearful, “ _Thank you_.”  

* * *

The walls of the war room still permeate with Isolde’s presence, but unlike before—when it was a stark reminder of what she had lost, of how alone she was—the presence is soothing, comforting, a gentle reminder of all she has learned. Because she _is_ the Commander _,_ and she _can_ do this. (She _must_ do this, she knows now.) 

“Many weeks ago,” Lexa begins, standing tall amongst all the older men and women—the elders, Luna, Gavin, her advisors and generals (including Indra), and Gustus and Anya—her heart hammering away as she speaks, “Luna asked me what kind of leader I would be. If I would be like Isolde and bear all,” she can almost feel the Commander’s touch on her head, hear her booming laugh, smell the faint scent of flowers that always accompanied her, “or if I would be like the other clan leaders, vying for war.” She takes a deep breath, swallowing, raising her chin and meeting Rox’s eyes—her brother, who gave her the idea by calling her an anomaly. “I will be neither of those. Instead, I choose a third option. Peace.”

“And how will you accomplish such a task?” one of the elders asks. Lexa leans forward, bracing herself on the table with her fists.

“I will unite the twelve clans.” Silence meets her words, everyone’s faces a mixture of utter disbelief and extreme skepticism. “Isolde once told me that on any given day, we are fighting a two-front war. One against each other, the other against the Mountain Men. This _must_ stop.” She straightens, meeting everyone’s eyes, needing them to agree, needing them on her side. “We must change, we must be different. Only then do we stand a chance against the Mountain.”

“They have weapons which make holes in the ground that you cannot see across. They are not enemies we wish to anger.”

“They are cowards, holed up in their Mountain, killing our people,” Lexa snaps back at the elder. “If we work together, if we are strong and united, they cannot use us. And survival will stop being such an enormous challenge.”

“How will this work, _heda_?” Gustus asks, crossing his arms over his chest, looking unconvinced and wary, but willing to listen.

“The Desert Clan is weak and needs help. They will join the alliance easily enough and—”

“—and the other eight? Do you really believe the Ice Nation will be a part of this, this _Coalition_ you’re trying to make?” The elder is attempting to be disparaging, but Lexa smiles.

“This Coalition is strong already, and it has only three Clans. Even if it is through blood, I will bring the twelve clans together. I will bring peace.”

“And you will be their leader?” Gavin asks, raising his eyebrows. Luna stares at Lexa in interest.

“Yes. My Coalition, the responsibility falls on my shoulders.” Gavin is satisfied by the answer, unwilling to take on any burden, but Luna continues to stare at Lexa in interest.

“If I did not know you, _Leksa kom Trikru_ , I would say you were power hungry.” She laughs, shrugging. “But I do know you and if this Coalition is something you think we can accomplish, then very well. You have my sword.”

“And mine,” Gustus says immediately. Anya snorts.

“You always have mine.” One by one, the others nod, offering up their services, their loyalty, and Lexa nearly sighs in relief. But it is not until the meeting is long over, when she is alone in the war room, surrounded by the Commander’s presence, that she allows herself to slouch, to breathe, to close her eyes and finally break down.

“Am I still your pride and joy, _heda_?” she whispers, a gentle summer’s breeze bringing with it the scent of the Commander’s flowers—flowers that Lexa tends to meticulously, even now. “Do you agree with this plan?”

There is no answer, but then, Lexa does not need one.

 


	10. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see. So this is a threat.” A few of the Elders look uncomfortable, shifting about without meeting each other’s or her eyes. But the woman, the one who had spoken, remains resolute, her expression hard. “I give in to what you say and I remain heda? The Commander commanded by the Elders?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the two-thirds point, and gosh, that makes me so happy. Not only are we finally getting to the interesting parts, it's almost done! I mean, like, the angst is getting to me guys. Really.

**Two**

 

She stares at them with her hands clasped behind her back, warpaint covering most of her face, donning her full gear, hoping she is exuding an air of confidence and strength though her heart is beating out of control. The men and woman stare back, some confused, some unsure, all of them looking at her with some trepidation.

“You sixteen were chosen quite carefully,” Lexa says, looking at the woman to the very right and then scanning down the row. These are warriors, tested and true, with families—lives beyond that of serving her, their Commander. She knows this, and that it what makes this so difficult. “What I am asking of you is no short of suicide.” The uncertainty and confusion on their faces turns into fear, though all of them—warriors, true warriors—manage to hide it quickly. “I do not make this decision hastily. The Coalition I build is worth sixteen lives, is worth the potential loss. I wish to bring peace, I wish to eliminate the need for war, and to do that, blood must be spilled.” One of the men’s carefully schooled expression falls for a moment, and Lexa sees more than fear: she sees worry, she sees anxiety, she sees doubt. “You will be sent in pairs to the eight clans not yet a part of our Coalition. You will give their leader a message and a letter. It is very likely you will be killed—that is, after all, the way we are.” She stands a little straighter, ignoring Gustus’s looming presence behind her, ignoring the doubt prickling between her shoulder blades. “This is necessary. I would not do this otherwise.”

“Yes, _heda_ ,” they say in unison, and though Lexa waits for one of them to protest, to say they do not want to be sent away to die, no one speaks up ( _they are warriors_ , she thinks again, _they are warriors_ ).

( _They are warriors and when their_ heda _asks them to die for her, they do._ )

“I am counting on you. Good luck.” She watches as the sixteen men and women incline their heads, watches as they leave with their chests puffed out, proud and strong, watches and recites their names in her head as they exit the war room. She swallows, shifting slightly, waiting for Gustus to speak—he does not keep her waiting for long.

“This is necessary _, heda_ ,” he says, his tone earnest. “You could not have gone yourself. The Valley People were one thing. You cannot put yourself at risk eight more times.”

“I wish to be alone, Gustus.” She turns to the others in the war room—to Rox and his troubled expression, to Anya and her frown, and finally to Costia and her worried glance. “The Chief of the Desert Clan should be arriving in the morning. I will see you all then.” Without bothering to wait for a response, she leaves the war room as well, heading to her bedroom.

She strips off the war gear first—the clothes, the shoulder guard, the ceremonial sword at her waist—then roughly wipes the paint on her face off with a rag. Without pausing, she allows herself to collapse on her bed, her mind filled with thoughts of the sixteen men and women, the Desert Clan’s Chief, her plans for the Coalition. For the first time, she wonders if she has bitten off more than she can chew.

She does not turn when she hears the footsteps approach her. She remains the way she is: lying on her side, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The footsteps grow even closer and she curls even further into herself, a shaking ball, only partially hidden by her covers. In this moment, at this point, she is nothing but a child—a child shaking with the realization that she has made a grave mistake. As if sensing her thoughts, the person approaching her stops (person _—_ she knows who it is, the only one who would dare approach her now, but she does not want to see her, does not want to think about her), a sigh escaping her lips.

“I asked to be alone,” Lexa manages to snap, and the person—the person she knows, the person she trusts, the person she cannot bear to look at—lets out an uncomfortable laugh.

“You fooled the others, Lexa. But I know you.”

“Leave me.”

“You had no choice.”

“I said leave me.”

“Lexa, you can’t hide after you’re forced to make a difficult decision. Peace comes at a cost, we all know and understand that.”

“You’re not the one with their deaths on your back,” Lexa snaps, and Costia closes the last of the distance between them, sinking down on the bed, one hand on Lexa’s shoulder.

“I know, Lexa. That is the burden of _heda_.” She pauses, her fingers trailing down, tracing the tattoo on Lexa’s arm—the new tattoo, the one different from all the others, reserved for _heda_ —and she leans over to press a kiss on Lexa’s shoulder. “If there was any way I could lighten it, I would.” Lexa swallows, and after a pause, she turns around, facing Costia.

“I’ve condemned them.”

“They’re not dead yet.”

“Hope is foolish.”

“If you had no hope, you wouldn’t have sent them at all.” Costia kisses her again, this time on her forehead. “Gustus keeps saying that victory stands on the back of sacrifice. Do you trust him?”

“Yes. But that does not mean this is any easier.” Costia smiles sadly, finally shifting the last few inches and pressing a soft and chaste kiss to Lexa’s lips, kissing away the pain, kissing away the guilt, kissing away the sense of doubt.

“I know, Lexa,” she says as she pulls away, her hand on Lexa’s cheek, fingers splayed out, her thumb rubbing away the crease between Lexa’s eyebrows. “What can I do?” Lexa stares at her, her mouth dry, but suddenly—as if her hand had a mind of its own—she reaches out and tangles their fingers together.

“Just stay. Stay with me.”

* * *

She is in the library, sitting in her normal spot—where she learned how to read, where she sat across from Isolde and listened to her cheerful tone as she explained the meaning of certain words. A book is open on her lap, but her focus is on the chair once occupied by Isolde, a chair that feels like it has been vacant so long that Lexa can barely remember when it was filled.

“You miss Isolde?” Lexa does not look up at Rox’s words.

“Always,” she answers, shutting the book and leaning back in the chair. “Has the Desert Clan’s Chief arrived?”

“No. But I think Gustus is looking for you. He wants to discuss your plans for the Coalition.”

“Again?”

“He is protective of you. It’s natural.” Lexa smiles, and Rox steps over to her, leaning against the table. “I told him you were in the garden.”

“Ah. So what did you want me for?” Rox hangs his head, grinning.

“I see nothing gets past you, little sister.”

“If only because you make it so easy.” She looks at him expectantly, watching him shift uncomfortably. “So? Why did you need to keep Gustus distracted?”

“We should speak about Costia.” The smile tugging at her lips falls immediately, and she stiffens.

“What about her?” Rox clears his throat, his eyes full of regret—as if he does not want to be the one to speak, but knows he has to.

“Lexa, may I speak freely?”

“Yes, of course, you are my advisor.” Rox, however, shakes his head.

“I’m not here as your advisor, I am here as your brother, as someone who has lived not in the safety of Polis, but where there are very real dangers. The fog, Reapers, the other Clans…there is no shortage of such things.” Lexa stares at him, nodding slightly, indicating for him to continue. “You are _heda_ , yes. And it is my duty to protect you. But I also have a duty to you, Lexa, my sister. And dear sister, Costia is a danger.”

“You think she is a threat to me?”

“No, of course not. I have never met someone so loyal before. I meant a danger to your heart.” Lexa, who remembers Anya’s phrase— _love is weakness_ —tilts her head to the side, waiting to hear what her brother wanted to say. “You have enemies. The Ice Nation would see you fail, even if that meant giving up the possibility of peace. And you have been open about how much you favor Costia.”

“I—”

“I am not criticizing you. I am making a point. Costia is still a second, yet you let her sit in during talks, you speak with her—tell her your worries and plans. This must stop.” He leans forward, not letting Lexa break eye contact. “She is more likely to be used against you if people believe she knows your secrets. Do not give your enemies a reason to use the girl.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Take her as your own.”

“I will not,” Lexa snaps. “I will not reduce her to such a state. She is a warrior, proud and strong.” Rox sighs.

“Then give her a job, put her in charge of something that will keep her busy and away from you. You need not give her up, but take steps to ensure her safety. Don’t tell her your worries or plans or secrets. Don’t show her favor. Keep your distance, and she will be safe.”

“You want me to pretend I don’t favor her? To put up an act?” Rox nods firmly, his eyes hard. “Why? Why do you care what happens to Costia?”

“I don’t,” he says, shocking Lexa a little. “I care for you. And I don’t wish to see you in pain, Lexa. I will protect you, even if it is from your own heart.” Lexa frowns at the statement, wondering if she is imagining the threatening tone in his voice.

“If you hurt her—”

“I would never hurt her. But I cannot protect her either. Only you can.” He tilts his head, raising his chin, looking defiantly into Lexa’s eyes. “Please, Lexa.” She stares at him until he breaks eye contact, shifting uncomfortably. “Do you love her?” he asks softly, suddenly very interested in his hands.

“Rox—”

“Because I love Wren, and if I thought, even for a moment, that being with me would endanger her, I would leave her. I would choose her safety over what I wanted.” At this, Lexa stands, her fists clenched, her heart racing.

“You don’t think I do that already? With you? With Tris? Even with Anya and Gustus?” She takes a deep breath, shaking her head. “I have tried to push her away. She does not care about the danger, she will not listen to me.”

“She will not listen to Lexa, but she has no choice but to listen to _heda_.” He meets her eyes, and it is only the concern and worry that shines in them that makes Lexa collapse into her chair, all the fight—all the righteous fury—draining out of her as she realized the truth of his words. “You’re not giving her up, Lexa. You know this, right?”

“Yes, I know this,” she says tonelessly, agreeing with her brother though she knew he was wrong. Because it was not Costia who would be lost, it was not Costia who was being given up. For a year, she had been _heda_ to her people and Lexa with Costia. For a year, Costia coaxed the girl who had snuck off to swim in the lake out of the hardened shell that was the Commander. For a year, she had managed to avoid the terrible fate Isolde claimed was waiting for her, but now her time was up:

Lexa was lost; _heda_ had won.

* * *

“The Elders ask for you, _heda_.” She looks up from the maps, turning away from the Desert Clan’s Chief, turning away from Gustus’s argument with the other man, and she narrows her eyes at the aide.

“Tell the Elders I am busy.” When the aide does not move, she shifts to face him, staring him down. After a moment, he swallows nervously.

“I’m sorry, _heda_ ,” he says, and Lexa forcibly reminds herself that he is just a boy, just a child. “I was told not to return without you.”

“You obey the Elders over your Commander?” Anya’s words, spoken from the other side of the room, are soft, but the boy’s hands begin to shake (something he attempts to hide by clasping them behind his back).

“I obey _heda_ ,” he says, not meeting Lexa’s eyes. “But the Elders—”

“Yes, yes,” Lexa interrupts, shaking her head and handing the Desert Clan’s Chief one of the maps. She does not miss the amused look on his face, and she quickly quells the anger bubbling low in her chest. “They’d best be dying, though. Anya.” Without a word, Anya moves to take Lexa’s place at the table.

“I came to discuss this alliance with you, _heda_ ,” the Chief says, the corner of his mouth turned upwards in the beginnings of a smirk as Lexa steps over to the aide, who is literally shaking in his boots. “I was under the impression that you are the Commander.”

“Bold words for a man at my mercy, Tomas.” Lexa does not even grace the Chief with eye contact; she merely stares disinterestedly at her fingernails. “Would you like to test me?” There is a beat of silence and then:

“No, _heda_.” At the words, the apologetic (if insincere) tone, Lexa looks up.

“Now tell me, was that too hard?” The Chief merely looked down, his lips pressed into a thin line, and Lexa left the war room without another word, the aide hot on her heels.

“Are you worried he will retaliate, _heda_?” he asks, his eyes wide. He cannot be more then ten, a child, nothing more than a child, and Lexa forcibly reminds herself of that fact.

“The Desert Clan needs us. Tomas would not dare.” The boy nods thoughtfully, struggling to keep up with her pace.

“That is good. I don’t think we could have fought two wars, even with the Boat and Valley People.” His words stop Lexa in her tracks, and she grabs him by his shirt, pulling him to a stop as well.

“Explain.”

“The Elders, that is what they want to speak about.” He stares up at her in confusion, and Lexa’s grip on his collar tightens.

“Explain further,” she grits out when he immediately does not speak. He swallows roughly.

“I heard them discussing the messengers you sent. They claim that if any Clans refuse your offer, we will be at war. I heard them say they wanted to end the threat before it became one.”

“They wish to attack before we have answers?” She is speaking to herself, but the boy nods quickly, looking terrified. With a sigh, she releases him, shaking her head. “Go back to the war room. Tell Gustus that I need him.” The boy nods again, but as he turns to leave, Lexa grabs his collar once more, patting him on the head and giving him the smallest of smiles. “Thank you, Jon.”

“I obey _heda_ ,” he says, positively beaming, inclining his head. Then, before Lexa can get in another word, he rushes off.

* * *

The Elders look too smug.

It infuriates her, annoys her, rankles at her. She wants nothing more than to wipe their smirks, their self-satisfied grins, off their faces, but instead she is forced to stand in front of them, stared down at as if she is a child and they her disapproving parents.

“We are troubled indeed _, heda_ ,” the oldest of the Elders says, shaking her head slowly. Lexa cannot remember her name (has never bothered to learn any of their names), so instead of replying, she merely raises an eyebrow. The woman’s smug look falters for a moment, and she turns to the other five Elders briefly before physically gathering herself together and continuing. “We fear you invite war.”

“Explain.” It is an order, much like the order she gave Jon, but rather than grin at her, the Elders exchange glances once more. Lexa can practically hear what they are thinking: _She is making this difficult._

_She is not letting us have our way._

“If they kill our messengers and mobilize their armies, we will have no time to prepare a defense. We must plan ahead, _heda_. Attack first, not wait until we are attacked.” Lexa stands a little straighter, clasping her hands behind her back. _It is a cycle_ , she thinks. _This will never end_. (She is young, inexperienced, and her authority will constantly be questioned.)

(This is a test, it is always a test.)

“I know,” she answers simply, her expression calm and collected. She remembers the way Isolde handled a room, handled her unruly subjects, and she forces herself to mimic that behavior—to mimic that strength of character. “Do not think I am so foolish as to leave my people vulnerable. Should any of the Clans mobilize against us, we will know, and we will be ready.”

“But _heda_ —”

“Enough.” To the surprise of everyone, the Elder falls silent, lowering his head. “We cannot instigate. If we attack, we will be seen as subjugators, and the other Clans will not follow us. We are not conquerors, we are peacemakers. I will give them all the chance to accept or decline my offer, and if we go to war, they will have no one to blame but themselves.”

“This is not our way,” the oldest Elder, the woman, states, her expression furious. “We have known you were strange, _Leksa kom Trikru_. You buried the others chosen by the Spirit, you openly show your affection for your mentors and that second, and you waste your time crying for peace while the rest of us prepare for the inevitable war.”

“I am _heda_ , and I say our ways can change.”

“You are here for your people!” she cries, her eyes wide. “It is not your place to bring about change. Your people expect you to keep them safe, and as the representatives of your people, we warn you now, Lexa: You are neglecting your duties while you chase after this delusion of peace, and should this continue—should you fail in your duties—you will not be _heda_ much longer.” Lexa raises her chin, presses her lips in a thin line, meeting the Elders’ eyes unflinchingly.

“I see. So this is a threat.” A few of the Elders look uncomfortable, shifting about without meeting each other’s or her eyes. But the woman, the one who had spoken, remains resolute, her expression hard. “I give in to what you say and I remain _heda_? The Commander commanded by the Elders?” She blinks slowly, working hard to keep her tone inflectionless, her expression clear. “Is this a coup, Elder?”

“No, _heda_. It is a warning. Tread carefully, or the Spirit will not stay in you much longer.” Lexa’s gaze never wavers, her expression never falters. She looks on impassively though the threat is ringing in her ears, igniting her chest, anger rolling through her in waves.

“I will not be bullied, scared, threatened into doing what I know is wrong. Your concern is duly noted, but I assure you, it was never your place to worry.” They look shocked by her response, some even look affronted, by Lexa no longer cares. She turns and leaves, ignoring the woman’s protests, ignoring her claims that they were not yet done speaking. Instead, she meets Gustus outside the room, nodding to him and motioning for him to follow her. “You heard everything?”

“Yes, _heda_. It is a scare tactic, a power play. They think you an easy target.” They walk in the streets of Polis, heading back to her home, a small smile playing at her lips as she watches her people. They are happy, at peace, not hungering nor thirsting. She is doing well by them—she will do well by them.

“Because I want peace?” Her people begin to notice her, and they bow, incline their heads, chant her name. Children rush up to her and tug on her hands. She is doing well by them—she will do well by them.

“Because you show mercy. Some believe mercy is indicative of weakness.” Lexa is silent for a moment, content to nod at the children, suppressing the smile that tugs on her lips. When they finally break free of the street and the crowd, entering the garden behind her home, she turns to look at Gustus, her eyes narrowed.

“If they wish to see me be ruthless, then very well. I will be exactly that.”

“What will you do, _heda_?”

“It is time to teach the Elders where they stand.” Gustus nods, looking unsurprised by her comment. Perhaps he expected such a situation, perhaps he was merely good at hiding how he felt, but regardless, there is no indication if he agrees or disagrees with her. But Lexa also finds she does not care.

She is doing well by her people, and she has every intention to continue that—with or without the Elders’ help.  

* * *

The ceremony in Polis is small.

She knows why (everyone knows why). The war killed many seconds (Lexa herself killed five), then the drought killed even more. Few survived to see their eighteenth summer, few survived to become fully-fledged warriors.

Costia, a burly boy named Trent, a frail talkative girl called Sam, and fairly quiet and handsome boy named Quentin were the only ones being honored, the only ones being recognized. Their former mentors stand behind them, tall and proud, delighted for good reason: they succeeded where so many had failed, where so many had died.

Isolde always gave speeches at the ceremony in Polis, the ceremony of seconds turning into contributing citizens, but Lexa does not bother with words (Isolde was the speaker, Isolde was the one who instilled loyalty through a few powerful phrases). Instead, she dips her fingers in the dark kohl and paints the back of the former seconds’ eyelids, preparing them for war with nothing but a nod and slightest of touches. She hands them each a new weapon, listens patiently as they swear their fealty to _heda_ , and then the ceremony is over, almost as quickly as it began. Sam and Trent would be joining the warriors to the south, protecting their borders with Mountain Men. Quentin was to be sent to Luna, as she built defenses in case any Clans wished to attack. Costia, however, Costia would remain in Polis—as per her own request.

She loiters as the others incline their heads and leave, and when Lexa stares at her for a moment before rolling her eyes, the last of her patience crumbles and she runs to Lexa, throwing her arms around her neck, laughing (the sound makes Lexa’s heart beat faster, makes her knees feel weak, makes her stomach turn at what she is about to do).

“I am a warrior now, Lexa,” she says, grinning wildly, pressing a kiss to Lexa’s lips, then her jawline, then her neck. “Can you believe it?”

“Costia—”

“I will be given my own second. And I will be able to help, and teach, and I am a warrior, Lexa. A warrior.”

“You are,” Lexa says softly, pulling away from Costia’s tight grasp, her hot kisses. “You are a warrior, and a warrior needs a job.” This wipes the smile off Costia’s face, and her eyes narrow, understanding blossoming in them. She knows, Lexa can tell. She knows where this is going.

“I will be with you. I will be your protection.”

“I have Gustus.”

“He will need to eat and sleep eventually. Lexa, we discussed this—”

“—no, we didn’t. You made plans and believed I would go along with it, but I cannot. I will not.” Costia stares at her in disbelief, and she takes a step back, almost as if she cannot bear to be so close to Lexa. “We are attracting attention. Unwanted and undue attention. This is dangerous.”

“You think I’d allow your enemies to use me against you?” She is incredulous, angry, clearly frustrated. Lexa swallows.

“I think they would hurt you to get to me.” 

“So what would you do, Lexa? Pretend there is nothing between us?” When Lexa does not immediately respond, Costia scoffs. “That is what you want to do, isn’t it?”

“Of course not. I merely wish to make us less conspicuous, attract less attention.”

“There has to be another way.”

“Rox said to take you as my own.”

“Then do that! Lexa, do that. At least we will not be lying.”

“I will not.” The words come harshly, angrily, and Costia looks surprised. “You are a warrior. You are happy, I will not strip that away from you.”

“If it means having you, what do I care for a title?”

“I do, I care. I will not have you give up everything for me. You will remain in Polis, heading the Guard.” Costia snorts, shaking her head, her eyes flashing.

“So not only would you have me lie, you put me in charge of the group I hate. The group I’ve fought against. You realize they were the ones who killed Ric and Eve? The ones who destroyed priceless instruments, who burned the works of dozens of scientists and writers and thinkers?” She steps forward, jabbing Lexa hard in the sternum, her dark eyes full of a righteous fury, and Lexa does not think she has ever cared for Costia more than at this moment, watching her be so passionate over something she feels is important—over something she loves.

“Change comes slowly, Costia,” she says, tentatively reaching out to take Costia’s hand in her own, grateful when she does not pull away. “I must keep up appearances, be strong. And when change finally does come, there will be no reason to hide, no reason to pretend.”

“And being in charge of the Guard? Must I kill my friends to keep up appearances?”

“No, but you will be in the perfect position to protect them.” She leans forward, pressing her forehead against Costia’s, tangling their fingers together.

“I would rather you took me as your own.”

“This is not a request, Costia,” Lexa says, her voice soft, the words harsh. “I order you as _heda_.” There is silence following her words, Costia’s eyes full of something soft, gentle, sweet.

“I know what you’re doing,” she finally says, pressing a kiss to Lexa’s cheek. “And you can push me away as much as you like. But to me, you will always be Lexa.” She kisses Lexa again, this time at the corner of her mouth. “If I do this, will it ease your worries? Will it give you peace of mind?”

“Yes.”

“Then of course, _heda_. Whatever you need.” 

* * *

When the woman ambles into the room, Lexa is waiting for her, sitting at her chair with her legs crossed, the slightest of smiles on her face.

“Ah, good evening Esther. Sit. We have much to discuss.” The older woman, the Elder, licks her lips, obviously nervous and worried, but she immediately does as she is told.

“ _Heda_ ,” she says in greeting, inclining her head. Lexa leans back, her hands in her lap, her eyes on the Elder.

“I did not know who you were until today, Esther. I did not know Grenda is your daughter.”

“Was. My daughter is dead.” Lexa nods, wishing she felt an ounce of sympathy for the older woman.

“I heard rumors. Rumors that Grenda was killed after attempting to desert her Commander, her people. That her death was punishment, not killed honorably in war.” Esther’s lips curl, but she does not respond—she knows better. Instead, she stares stoically at Lexa, her back straight, her eyes dark with unbridled fury. “Perhaps it was my fault, for calling her a coward.”

“No, _heda_. A coward is a coward—the dishonor is her own.”

“An astute point, Esther. So tell me, why is it that you choose to dishonor yourself?”

“Are you calling me a coward, _heda_?”

“Yes. Was it not obvious?” Esther takes a deep breath—possibly to calm herself—and she shakes her head.

“I don’t—”

“You see, Esther, you didn’t merely question my leadership. You questioned my priorities. You threatened me.”

“ _Heda_ —”

“But much like your daughter, you have nothing to back up your claims. Nothing to offer in the place of my ideas. You say I am not keeping my people safe, I say you are a threat to my people.” Lexa watches as understanding floods through Esther, as her shoulders slump, her eyes focus on the table.

“I am an Elder,” she says weakly, a last ditch effort.

“Yes, and I am _heda_. And who do you think the people will support? The mother of a traitor, a coward? Or the one who won the war against the Ice Nation, the _heda_ who brought peace?” Esther raises her head, her eyes flashing.

“Are you threatening me?” she asks, her voice low. She has every right to be offended. She has been an Elder longer than Lexa has been alive. But Lexa merely stares her down, knowing she is in the right, determined to do well by her people, regardless of the cost.

“Yes,” she finally says, leaning forward and ensuring that Esther can do nothing but stare into her eyes, see exactly how sincere she is. She is no longer a child, she has no time for tests. “Was it not obvious?”

 


	11. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Coalition is for him,” she whispers. “Peace, a life without war. A life of opportunity and choice—where he can decide for himself. That is what I want to build for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very sorry.

**Three**

She hears of the attack several days after it occurs.

Indra and Anya arrive in Polis together, identical expressions of forced indifference on their faces as they walk into the war room, interrupting Lexa’s meeting with Luna, Gavin, and Tomas.

“It’s the Mountain Men, _heda_ ,” Indra says without prompt, and she strides over until she is standing at Lexa’s right, something flashing in her eyes. “Six of my warriors were taken just days ago by Reapers.” She looks furious. “When will we confront that threat? End it?”

“Why do you think I want to build a Coalition?” Lexa asks tiredly, giving Anya a look, which merely causes the older woman to grin. “Until there is peace among the Clans, we cannot hope to defeat the Mountain Men.” Gavin grins at her words—the one with the most to gain without the threat of the Mountain—but Luna merely looks amused.

“Our Commander has a plan,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “We would do well to follow her lead, isn’t that right, Tomas?” The taunt makes the man grunt, but otherwise, he refuses to react. “We should give you and your advisor time to speak, _heda_ ,” she continues, looking from Lexa to Anya. She makes a motion with her head, and Gavin and Tomas immediately fall into line, following her out of the room, and leaving Lexa alone with Indra and Anya.

“There is nothing I can do, Indra,” Lexa begins tiredly, sitting in her chair, looking up at the older woman. “Only a few clans have responded. When I have news, so will you.”

“Have I earned your trust _, heda_?” she asks, ignoring Lexa’s comment. “Will I be free of surveillance?” She eyes Anya disapprovingly, but Anya merely smirks.

“Indra is also angry because she believes she is second in command at Tondc. She claims had she been in charge, those six warriors would not have been caught unawares by the Mountain Men.” 

“It is not a claim, it is the truth,” Indra states, baring her teeth. “Your advisor sent my men to the other side of the river. We all know the Mountain Men control the lands south of the river.”

“They were on a scouting mission,” Anya shoots back, now looking uneasy and annoyed. “They knew the risks. They were brave warriors.”

“And because of you, they are all dead.”

“We don’t know that—”

“—those who are taken never return, but someone shielded here in Polis couldn’t be expected to understand—”

“—I don’t understand? You are in charge of a small village, I work for _heda_ herself—”

“—you speak of your rank and you think it—”

“Enough.” The word puts their argument to an immediate stop, both of them turning to look at Lexa with wide eyes. “You’re acting like children.”

“Commander—” Indra begins, clearly about to argue her case even further. She is silenced when Lexa raises her hand.

“Indra, you wish to earn my trust?” The woman strands a little straighter, the smallest of tugs on her lips, giving Lexa a curt nod. “Very well. I have a job for you.”

“Of course, _heda_.”

“I want you to watch the new leader of the Guard. Track her, keep an eye on her. Let me know how well she is doing at her position.” This makes Indra frown in confusion, but she nods immediately.

“Of course, Commander.” She inclines her head and then leaves, and Lexa turns her attention to Anya.

“Go ahead and say it. I know you want to.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Why send out scouts?”

“To understand the enemy.” Lexa stares at her former mentor for a moment, then sighs.

“You and Indra cannot ride to Polis every time you disagree.”

“And you cannot use capable warriors to keep an eye on the girl just because you can no longer do it yourself.”

“The girl has a name.”

“Costia is capable, she is strong. The Guard is under good leadership.” Lexa nods, looking away from Anya and eyeing the maps and papers that litter the table. They are all for her—her writings, her records, detailing every action they take. She rubs her eyes, feeling tired, worn.

“She will bring the change I cannot,” she finally says, meeting Anya’s eyes briefly before looking away again, unable to bear the pity she sees. “She will do a great deal.”

“Open your eyes, Lexa,” Anya says, her tone blunt but not unkind. “You have already done much.”

* * *

He has dark eyes, tufts of dark hair, and makes soft breathing noises every time he moves. And Lexa, with no thought at all, immediately falls in love with him.

“I have named him in secret,” Rox says, watching Lexa watch the baby, the child, her nephew. There is something in his eyes, a look she does not quite care for, and she wonders what her brother thinks as he watches his cold Commander—his little sister—smile widely at his son. “Wren does not know, I think she would consider it a bad omen.”

“What will you call him?”

“Darrin. Or maybe Duglas. I want a strong name for him.”

“He has his mother’s eyes,” Lexa says, reaching out, enamored by his small fingers and toes, by the opening and closing of his mouth, by the way he yawns. She loves this boy, this Darrin or Duglas, and she can do nothing to quell the feelings erupting in her chest. “Has Tris met him?”

“Oh yes. She was here when Wren gave birth. She said he is beautiful.”

“She is right.” Lexa tears her gaze away from the child, turning to her brother. “I am sorry I  missed the ceremony. I—”

“You had no choice, I know. You could not come to my Joining, it would have put us in danger. Please don’t apologize, Lexa. Not for that.”

“I wish I had seen it. Gustus told me it was wonderful. And now, look. You have a son.”

“And you have a nephew.” Rox places a hand on her shoulder, but Lexa’s gaze is on the child again, torn between amazement, wonder, and love. She wonders, for the first time, how it was fair to deprive _heda_ of this honor—of this miracle.

“The Coalition is for him,” she whispers. “Peace, a life without war. A life of opportunity and choice—where he can decide for himself. That is what I want to build for him.”

“It is a beautiful dream, Lexa,” Rox says, removing his hand, smoothing back his son’s hair, the one month old dozing off.

“It is not a dream. Dreams do not come true,” she finds herself saying. “It is a promise.”

* * *

Of the eight Clans she sent messengers to, only one sent both back alive. The Massa Clan immediately sent word that they sought peace as well, sent warriors, sent grain and cloth in gesture of good will. Three Clans—Plains, Metal, and Nomads—sent back one messenger, claimed they believed it was a power play, a declaration of war, but that they were willing to listen to the Commander. Three Clans (Mountain, Mary, and Stone) killed her messengers, leaving their heads near _Trigedakru_ borders, serving as a warning—an act of war. The Ice Nation gave no response at all.

Luna, upon hearing this news, is ecstatic, Tomas cracks a smile, and Gavin chuckles heartily, all three of exceedingly overjoyed by the way things turned out (this is when Lexa learns that all three believed her Coalition would fail, that there was no hope at all, and just this sliver of progress has them suddenly believing in the cause).

When the Elders are told of this development, all six defer to Lexa’s judgment, claiming they always knew peace was possible, assuring the Commander that in her absence, her laws would be upheld by the Guards and themselves (this, of course, is when Lexa learns the Elders are all cowards, far more worried about themselves than about the people).

When her advisors—Gustus, Anya, and Rox—hear of the messengers’ fates, they offer her sympathetic looks, begin to plan her trips to the other Clans, begin to plan a war (this is when Lexa learns that she has placed her trust in fine warriors, good people, that she was right to keep them by her side—right to have faith in them).

When words gets out and her people learn the news—the fact that the Coalition has gone from four Clans to five, that three more were willing to bring about peace, that war was inevitable—they chant her name at nights, light candles and stand outside her home, placing their faith, their trust, their lives, in the hands of their Commander (and this is when Lexa learns that Rox was right, that her people love her, and the weight on her shoulders—on her back—seems to double, triple, quadruple, in weight). 

When word gets out that Lexa is leaving Polis in a week’s time, that she would be off to bring peace and wage war, she hears from everyone except for Costia (and this, this is when Lexa learns the meaning of regret, and she is forced to remind herself that she chose this).

Thus, it is a surprise when, two days later, Lexa finds Costia sneaking into her chambers late at night. Lexa is too shocked to complain, and when Costia kisses her, she is too weak to argue.

“Being in charge of the Guard has its benefits,” Costia says much later, snacking on some fruit, watching Lexa. “I know where all your guards are at all times.”

“You’re supposed to be weeding out those who break my laws.”

“Ah, so you don’t like rule breakers anymore?” She grins. “You used to be quite fond of them.”

“Funny. Indra is watching you, making sure you’re doing your job.”

“I know. She told me I was a “good warrior” and that she understood why the Commander would choose me. I wanted to tell her this was all a ruse, but I suppose that’s the point of a secret.” Lexa flashes Costia a look, but she just grins, shrugging slightly. “I gave in to give you peace of mind. Not because I agreed.”

“I know. But how long before someone catches you? This is the fifth time you’ve done this since I put you in charge of the Guard.”

“You haven’t exactly complained.”

“Costia.” Her grin is replaced by annoyance before she manages to school her expression.

“You’re leaving soon.”

“So are you.”

“It’s a small village. Someone reported a man who won’t stop staring at the stars, claims one of them isn’t actually a star. He could cause problems.”

“You’re supposed to protect the thinkers, Costia.”

“Yes, but in this case, I need to protect him from himself. Hide him away, far from that village.” She sighs, laying back on the bed, shifting so that she is pressed against Lexa’s side. “I will miss you.”

“It’s safer for you.”

“I will be gone for only a short while,” she says, hearing what Lexa does not—cannot—say. “Don’t worry, Lexa, I will be back.”

“I know. Me as well.” Costia smiles, leaning over to press a soft, lingering kiss on Lexa’s lips.

“ _Ai hod yu in_ ,” she says, not meeting Lexa’s eyes. Silence follows her words, and she lets out a soft laugh. “One day,” she whispers, pressing another kiss to Lexa’s lips, “one day you will have changed the world enough that you can say it too. Don’t worry, Lexa. I will wait.” And then, she leaves the same way she came—hurriedly and with a heated kiss.

* * *

“We should meet them on our terms, not on theirs,” Gustus says, his voice gruff. The weather is quickly becoming cooler, autumn approaching in a rush, leaving throats sore and noses sniffling, and not even Gustus is able to escape the season’s wrath. Lexa laughs, loud and clear, the sight of her protector’s red nose and annoyed expression becoming too much.

“We want them to join the Coalition, Gustus,” she says, ignoring the grin that appears on his face in response to her laughter. “If that means we meet them where they want, so be it.”

“The Massa People required no meeting.”

“The Massa People are terrified of the Ice Nation’s growing army. Three years is not enough to wash away the memories of the past.”

“They were barely touched by the war.”

“Many of their villages burned. We were not the only ones who lost people in the Ice Nation’s bid for power.” Gustus scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, head held high—a pointless endeavor to look serious, marred by the sniffling and occasional cough.

“What if this is a trick?” he asks, giving her a look. “They drag us to their land, they have the advantage. The army.”

“I have you,” Lexa says, unable to help the grin that grows on her face as they walk towards the enormous fire lit at the center of their camp. The dozen or so warriors she brought with her are already huddled around it, and they stand to attention the moment they see her approach. “I have them,” she gestures to the warriors, who return to their meals and conversations after a wave of her hand. “And I have Anya, Indra, and Rox. It is my own small army.”

“Your safety is not a joke, _heda_.” He stuffs his hand into his pocket and pulls out a bag, handing it to Lexa. She fights a smile when she realizes he has given her a bag of dried fruits.

“Feeling sentimental, Gustus?”

“You may be _heda_ , but I’ve known you since you were a child. And you are happy.” He says it as a statement, no real curiosity in his tone, and Lexa knows it is a trap—a way to get her to admit to something she did not want to admit. But instead of changing the subject or ending the conversation, she indulges him, smiling slightly as she willingly walks into his verbal snare.

“Am I not allowed to be happy?”

“I would say that depends on why you are happy, _heda_.”

“You could just ask, Gustus. Like you said, you have known me for a long time.” They walk away from the fire and back towards her tent, Gustus silent until they are alone.

“I fear you are taking light of the threat on your life because you are happy,” he finally says.

“My brother has a son. Costia is safe in a village to the north, where she is protecting thinkers. And I am making an alliance with three more Clans tomorrow. Why would I not be happy?”

“ _Heda_ —”

“Trust me, Gustus,” she interrupts, placing a hand on his arm, silencing him. “I have no intention of dying. I have a promise to keep.”

* * *

The leaders of the Plains, Metal, and Nomad clans make Lexa rather uneasy.

Gail, the leader of the Plains Clan, is a short, stout, and affable woman, quick to laugh, but vaguely suspicious and unassuming. She has graying hair, old for her position, and there is something about her laughter that makes Lexa feel rather uncomfortable (it is an unbalance, a disharmony, she has no idea how to deal with). 

Pel, who led the Metal Clan, is Gail’s opposite. He is young, rakish, lean and tall. But he seems off as well—sociable and charming, yet there is a darkness in his eyes that Lexa is intimately familiar with. He is haunted—much like Glen and Frieda and Isolde haunt her—but unlike Lexa, it seems to affect his actions, his behavior. He is unstable, and Lexa realizes that—much like Luna or Tomas—an alliance with him is risky. Should it ever be in his favor, he would tear away from the Coalition in a heartbeat.

Trina, the makeshift head of the Nomads, is entirely different. She is serious, rarely smiled, her back straight, bones easily seen through her clothes. But she also is the one Lexa found herself liking and trusting the most—she is frail, but strong, firm in her convictions if not in body.

“You say Luna has agreed to this alliance?” Gail asks, sitting back, staring at Lexa in disbelief. “What could the Tree People possibly give to the Boat Clan to make them agree to such a deal?”

“The same thing I offer you,” Lexa answers, not letting Gail’s tone faze her. “Peace. Protection. Prosperity.”

“You guarantee things that cannot be guaranteed,” Trina says, her fingers tapping against the table, her eyes not on Lexa, but on the roof of the tent. Lexa had met with the three Clan leaders, as agreed, on neutral ground—not in any of their towns or villages, but in the middle of nowhere, huddled together in a cold tent.

“If we are allies, we can defeat the Mountain Men. We can bring peace. And with peace comes safety, comes prosperity. A chance for our people to live lives untouched by war, famine, or drought. We create a new world, one where we help each other.”

“And you would be in charge of this ‘new world?’” Pel asks, tilting his head to the side, studying Lexa carefully. “You will lead my people?”

“Your people are your own. But you will answer to me.”

“So it is a power play!” Gail exclaims. “I do not believe Tomas, Gavin, or Luna would agree to such terms.”

“Ask them yourself, if you wish. But honestly, I don’t care if you believe my intentions or not. Asking you to join my Coalition is merely a formality. I will bring peace—with or without your help.”

“You would go to war to bring peace?” Pel asks, raising his eyebrows, an attempt to be sardonic. Lexa turns her gaze to him.

“Yes.” Gail and Pel look horrified by her statement, but Lexa thinks she sees Trina’s lips quirk in a slight smile before she is able to school her expression.

“My people are nomads, Commander Lexa,” she says, her eyes still on the roof. “We will bring very little to your Coalition, but what we have is yours.”

“And what is mine is yours,” Lexa answers, nearly smiling when Trina looks away from the roof long enough to meet Lexa’s eyes. The woman smiles—though it is barely a smile, much like the way Indra showed amusement—and nods. Gail practically growls.

“Commander, you cannot possibly bu—who are you? Don’t you see we’re in a middle of something?” Lexa frowns and turns, surprised when she realizes Gail is addressing Anya.

“ _Heda_ ,” she says, ignoring Gail completely, “we have captured scouts from the Ice Nation. For them to be this far south—”

“—they were looking for me. Yes. Very well, let’s go see what they want.” She stands, shocked when Pel snorts mirthlessly.

“Are we not worth your time, Commander?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “We have more to discuss.”

“No, we don’t. I gave you your options. It is time for you to decide.” She waits for a moment, and when there is silence, she nods. “Very well, I have—”

“What is mine is yours, Commander,” Gail interrupts, sighing, rubbing her temples. “It’s not like I have a choice.” Lexa nods, then turns her gaze to Pel. He looks supremely displeased by it, but he too gives in.

“And mine as well.” There is no mistaking it now, Trina is smiling.

“Look at that, _heda_ ,” she says, using the _Trigedakru_ honorific. “You may bring peace after all.”

* * *

Gustus and Anya stand to her right, Indra to her left, the three of them forming a sort of shield against the two scouts who walk into her tent, their heads inclined, their hands raised in surrender. Rox stands behind them, kicking them, bringing them down to their knees.

“They claim they wish to speak with you, Commander,” Indra hisses, hands clenched around the hilt of her weapon, not looking at all inclined to speak to anyone, let alone Ice Nation scouts. “They say they bring a gift from the Ice Queen.”

“And I say we kill them,” Anya says, crossing her arms, getting a curt grunt of approval from Indra. “The Ice Nation wants war, nothing more. We will give it to them.” Lexa frowns, her eyes never wavering from the two scouts. They seem calm, far calmer than two scouts found in enemy territory should seem.

“The Queen has not yet given me her answer,” Lexa says, addressing the scouts who look up at her. Their faces are smeared with blue paint, hair tied back with blue and white strands of cloth. It is a wonder they were not caught sooner—seen sooner—amongst the green of the forest. “So, what is her answer?”

“The Queen sends a gift, Commander. A gift that will explain everything,” the scout on the right says, his voice clear and strong despite the situation he is in. With a nod from Lexa, Rox leaves the tent for a moment and returns, carrying a wooden box covered in blue and white cloth, a golden emblem on the side. He places it on the ground in front of Lexa, and then settles back into his spot behind the scouts. Lexa watches as the scouts’ eyes never waver from the box, how a small smirk begins to form on the one to the right’s lips, and she knows—she is not stupid, of course she knows—she will not like what she will find in the box. “The Queen said that she did you a favor. A favor much like the one you did for her, when you spared her life and dishonored our entire Clan in the process.” Dread pools in Lexa’s stomach, but before she can reach down, Gustus picks up the box, opening the lid.

And there, right before Lexa’s eyes, is Costia’s head.

There is a moment—significant in its brevity—that the world is still. Lexa’s eyes do not move from the box, no one is breathing, the sun and stars themselves have stopped shining. But the moment passes in the blink of an eye, and Lexa finds herself swallowing, her eyes moving away from the box, her mind blank, focused only on the task at hand. ( _I will be gone for only a short while. Don’t worry, Lexa, I will be back._ )

“I will kill you all!” Indra snarls, both she and Anya drawing their weapons. Lexa can do nothing but raise her hand, stopping them with the motion, not trusting her voice to remain steady. (“Who are you?” she once asked. _A warrior,_ Costia said. _I will be a warrior._ )

“Put your weapons away,” she says, after a second of silence, her eyes not on the box still in Gustus’s unmoving hands, but on the scouts, the scouts who look at her with anticipation—with the utter conviction that their fight ends today. And how easy, how right, would it be to slit their throats, let them bleed dry for their actions. For following their Queen’s orders. For being foolish enough to come before the Commander with the head of the one she loved. _Jus drein jus daun_ , there would be none who would fault her, blame her, argue against the righteousness of her actions—none who would deprive her of her justice, her vengeance. “Now,” she says, when Anya merely stares at her incredulously, and Indra looks flabbergasted. Gustus still does not move, and Rox shifts to prevent the scouts from running—from fleeing.

“They killed Costia, they must die,” Indra growls, coming as close to flat out disobedience as she could before sheathing her sword, her fists clenched so tight that Lexa was sure she would draw blood. ( _Lexa, it brings hope. We all need hope to survive_. Oh, but what hope was there now, she wishes to yell. What hope, when the one who made her dare to dream, the one who put such faith in her, was gone? What hope, Lexa wants to shout, to exclaim, to cry, what hope without you?) “This is an insult, _heda_. It cannot stand! Costia was not merely the Captain of the Guard. She was yours. This is an act of war.”

“Stand down,” Lexa mutters, getting to her feet. Gustus finally looks away from the box, his eyes on Lexa now, something about his gaze and set of his shoulders making him seem broken, and Lexa wishes she were not _heda_. Lexa wishes she could rush to him, bury her face in his chest, let him place his hand on top of her head, asking him for comfort and giving him some in return. But she is _heda_. She is _heda_. ( _You belong to your people, Lexa. Let me belong to you._ No! No, she should have said. Stay away, she should have cried. She is death, she is destruction, she is _heda_ , and even now, with her heart shattering, with her world falling apart, she cannot be Costia’s. She is _heda_. She belongs to no one, to everyone; she is alone, broken, hopeless. She is _heda._ ) “Stand down,” she repeats, marveling at the fact that her voice remains steady, that she has not shed a tear, that her back remains straight despite feeling the weight of the world settle upon her shoulders—despite feeling the heavy burden of loss take its place somewhere between her shoulder blades.

“Commander, I agree with Indra, this is an act of war—we must seek punishment, justice.” Lexa raises her hand, and once again, Anya falls silent, stands down, obeys. Her eyes, however, narrow, her lips thin.

“How long did it take for the two of you to reach this camp?” Lexa asks, addressing the scouts. ( _You belong to your people. But I will not let them break you_. Too late, she thinks now, too late. Without Costia, without her protection, her soothing words, her gentle embrace, Lexa feels herself shatter, crumble, break beneath the weight of her duties, her expectations. Without Costia by her side, her soft kisses and selfless support, Lexa is gone, gone, gone for good. All that remains is _heda_. And _heda_ belongs to her people).

“A day, Commander.”

“Good.” She raises her chin, raises her head, something settling into her that she had not felt before—not after her mother’s death, not after Glen’s, Frieda’s, or even the death of Isolde. It is a numbness, a blankness, an emptiness she cannot name, except for the fact that it is an absence, and absence is better than pain. “You have two days to return to your Queen and ask her if she wishes to stand with or against my Coalition. If you are not here, in this tent, by sunrise of the third day, I will assume your Queen vies for war, my warriors and I will march on the Ice Nation.” She leans forward, meeting the scout’s eyes, the one who had spoken, the one who had smirked. “I will march on your Clan, and I will force them into my Coalition, even if it is through their blood. Understand?” The scout swallows and nods, his expression finally terrified—his situation finally made clear to him. ( _It is all right not to be all right._ She is not all right, Lexa knows this. Can tell from the way her lungs still expand and deflate. Can tell from how, somehow, she is alive when she feels nothing at all. How she is alive when Costia—her friend, her confidant, her everything—is not.) She nods to Rox, and he pulls the scouts roughly to their feet, pushing them out of the tent, and on their way. Anya says nothing, merely stares at Lexa carefully, but Indra’s face is set in a scowl, and she shifts to face her Commander, obviously intent on starting an argument.

“We cannot let such an insult go, _heda_ ,” she says, her voice practically a growl. Lexa meets her eyes, swallowing, a thud of pain erupting in her chest amongst all the darkness—echoing in the void.

“Uniting the Clans is for one purpose only: peace. My Coalition cannot and will not be soaked in the blood shed in the name of vengeance.”

“She killed Costia,” Indra argues, Costia, a girl she knew, Costia, who Indra had liked—had claimed was a worthy head of the Guard. ( _But I belong to you, and that is all that matters_. But no, nothing matters anymore, nothing, nothing but her people. Nothing but her people. She is _heda_.) “It is not vengeance, it is justice.”

“The Ice Nation will not see it that way. Their Queen is shrewd. She knows she can set her own people and others against me if she paints me as a selfish conqueror—out for my own desires, not for peace. I will not fall for a lowly trick, I will not let what we have created thus far fall apart because I want to make the Queen bleed.” She pauses, not meeting Anya or Gustus’s eyes, not turning away from Indra’s hard gaze. “It is a choice, and the choice is made.” ( _The choice is mine, and I belong to you._ Back then, she had known the choice was wrong, and here now—so much time later—she has the proof. Because she had been told, time and time again, _hodnes laik kwelnes_. Weakness, Isolde had said. Weakness, Anya had explained. Weakness, Rox had warned her. And here now, so much time later, with Indra staring at her as if she has lost her mind, Gustus’s gaze still broken, Anya hanging her head, Lexa finally understands. It was weakness to love Costia, it was foolish, it was costly. She is _heda_ , and from the beginning, Isolde had told her that the things she cared for would always be used against her—always used against her, and thus her desires were no longer of any importance. And here is the proof, the evidence, the lesson—this final, critical, earthshattering lesson—hammering its way home: _Hodnes laik kwelnes_. Love is weakness, and Lexa does not intend to be weak again.)

She swallows hard, spares one last glance at the box still in Gustus’s hands, and without saying another word—without bothering to explain further—she leaves her own tent, her thoughts on the wonder that a corpse could still breathe, that a broken heart could somehow continue to hobble on, beating despite itself (a feat that should have been impossible).

( _Ai hod yu in_ , Costia had said. And now, with Costia’s blood on her hands, a war on the horizon, struggling with the weight on her shoulders now that she had no one to shield her from its enormity, Lexa wishes she had told Costia the truth—wishes that she had been braver in the moment that mattered.)

( _Ai hod yu in_ , Costia had said. _And I you_ , Lexa thinks, Lexa wishes she had answered, Lexa wishes she had uttered. But it is better this way. It is better.)

( _Hodnes laik kwelnes,_ and Lexa is bitterly strong _._ )

 


	12. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If a few must die to ensure our survival, so be it,” she snaps, on edge because of Gustus, fraying at those edges because of Rox. “I am doing what it takes to survive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy, so like. Sorry again. (And please come bug me on tumblr at theahhamoment. Guys, I live for comments/freaking out/questions.)

**Four**

With the arrival of summer comes hot, humid days, afternoon storms, and a permanent state of mugginess that makes even the most tolerant of warriors complain of exhaustion. It is a bad time for a war, Lexa knows.

Yet she wages it.

The death, the blood, the inability to keep up with the corpses—leaving them rotting out in the sun—leads to the spread of illness. The disease follows death like wildfire, leaving destruction in its wake, leaving her people heaving for a respite, a moment to breathe. It is a bad time for a war, Lexa knows this.

Yet she continues to wage it.

War, she learned many years ago, is never pretty. War is death, is suffering, is pain, is pure annihilation. She finds that she hates war, loves war, revels in it, wishes to end it forever. Indra, with a rare look of approval, called her ruthless. Luna, with an indifferent expression, claimed she would follow Lexa’s lead, wherever that may be.

Gustus said that she is lost.

Four Clans refused her offer. Four Clans wished for war rather than peace. And now she grants their wish, she gives them war, she makes them regret every action, every word, every thought they had against her and her people. She would create the Coalition, she would keep her promise, she would bring peace. It will be her legacy, her final gift, her only purpose.

It is a bad time for war, Lexa knows. (Gustus said she is lost.)

Yet she pushes on. (He is right.)

* * *

“Your job is to protect her, even if it is from herself!” Lexa stops, turns to stare at Gustus’s tent, Anya’s words ringing in her ears. This is not the first time she has overheard this particular argument—it has come up again and again—and she doubts Gustus’s answer will change anytime soon.

“She is not a child anymore, Anya,” he says, sticking to his script, sticking to the same phrase he has used again and again. “Gone are the days when we could sooth her fears and pain. She will not accept your embrace and cry on your shoulder as she did when Isolde died. Lexa is _heda_ now.” This part is new, this part is said because he sees her through the flap of his tent, wants her to hear him—needs her to hear him. (But Lexa has stopped listening to her advisors, stopped caring. She needs no one, she is _heda_.) “As _heda_ , she must learn to cope on her own.” She steps away, no longer interested, ignoring the thud in her empty chest, ignoring the pain she hears in Gustus’s tone, ignoring the fact that she desperately wishes for Anya’s soothing embrace, for Gustus’s strong presence. (She is _heda_.)

“Now that you have taken control of the Mountain Clan, what will you do?” Rox walks in step next to her, his look knowing. He does not speak of what they both have overheard, and she is forced to quickly quell the gratitude that wells in her chest, pushing it away, back, as if it had never been there in the first place.

“The Mary Clan has issued a surrender, and I believe the Stone Clan will not be far behind. All that remains is the Ice Nation.”

“That is not an answer, _heda_ ,” Rox says, coming to a stop, staring at her. Sweat beads on his forehead, and though he hides it well, she can see the worry behind his eyes.

“We will stop in Polis on our way north. Do not worry, Rox. You’ll see Darrin soon.”

“He is not what I worry about.” Lexa stares at her brother, sighs, and ignores the comment. Instead, she gestures to the men and women around them—her brave warriors, people who were willing to fight and die in this war because she asked them to.

“They deserve some rest before we march on the Queen.” He is frowning when Lexa turns back to him. “She invited war, so we will bring it.”

“You said you were not seeking vengeance.” Lexa nods.

“I have no intention of killing the Queen.”

“ _Heda—_ ”

“I made a promise. I will bring peace.” And without giving him a chance to reply, she dismisses him.

* * *

Polis reeks of death.

Esther informs her that the disease spread quickly, that children suffered more, that so many succumbed to the illness, too weak to fight. When Lexa asks why her people were so weak, Esther flashes her a confused look and answers with simply one word: Loss. (This however, makes no sense to Lexa, for she too has suffered loss, and it has only made her strong. _Harden your heart_ , she had once been told. And if she could learn, what made her people so different?)

Though she is exhausted from her trip—from the war she wages though she knows better—Lexa spends her first day back in Polis among her people, weaving through the sparsely crowded streets, speaking with worried mothers, pressing a hand to the hot foreheads of feverish children, reassuring fathers that the war would soon end, that peace would soon come. She first begins to feel a sense of shame after an hour among them, and as the day goes on, the feeling intensifies until she is unable to meet her people in the eye, worried that she will see reproach in them. (Anya tells her that her mere presence soothes her people, that they would suffer through more for her, because they trust her, have faith in her, and Lexa wants to scream, wants to shout, wants to shake them and ask if they knew what happened to those who had faith in her—if they realized this death was brought onto them because of her. But instead, she merely nods, swallows, and forces herself to meet their eyes, giving, giving what she could, for she is _heda_ , and _heda_ belongs to her people.)

(She realizes her people are different from her, realizes that they are weak, and she would give her life in order to ensure they remained that way.)

When she reaches Rox’s home, sees Tris standing outside the door with tearstained cheeks, she hides back, avoids being seen. From afar, she watches, something twisting in her gut as she watches Tris cry silently, as she watches Wren—Rox’s selfless, brave, kind wife—come out and stoically pull Tris in an embrace. She watches, paying no heed to the woman who steps up next to her, standing silently next to her with a blank expression.

“I am not your mentor,” Luna says softly, and Lexa—for the first time in years—remembers Isolde, her grey eyes, her misguided lessons, and it feels like a punch to the gut, like she has been drenched in icy water. Suddenly—with her eyes on Rox’s newest loss, with Luna’s strange presence, with her memories of the woman who was like a mother to her swirling in her mind—something in her positively aches. “I am not even your equal.” Here, she eyes Lexa with a smirk, amused though she has no reason to be. “I am your subordinate in every sense of the word. But _heda_ , I would give you a piece of advice.” Lexa swallows back all her emotions and turns to the woman with raised eyebrows.

“Speak,” she says, blinking slowly. Luna lets out a sigh.

“The walls you have put up, that hardness in your chest, it will not protect you.” She turns so that she is facing Lexa completely, her eyes earnest. “Beneath it all, you still have a bleeding heart, a broken heart.” She smiles grimly, and for the first time, Lexa wonders is she misjudged Luna—if perhaps Luna was far more stable than she ever gave her credit for. “Let it heal, child. Fortify it, let it come back stronger. Don’t bury it. Don’t hide it.” Her smile disappears, and she stares at Lexa sadly, her blue eyes reminiscent of the way Isolde once looked at Lexa, and once again, she feels that ache deep in her chest. “Your heart was what made you, you. All you do now is make yourself suffer.”

* * *

They leave Polis only a few days later, and though Lexa wishes she could tell Rox to remain behind, to stay with his family, she does not, and he does not ask.

The march towards the Ice Nation is tinged with loss, with sadness, all her warriors exhausted—not from war, not from fighting, but from the time spent in Polis. It is easier, she realizes, easier to fight on, to keep moving, than it is to deal with the death of a loved one (she does not allow herself to dwell on the fact that it holds true for her as well).

(She finds herself watching her brother, taking note of the pain in his eyes, the slouch of his back, the way he moves—with slowness, a lethargy that was not there before. She finds herself taking note of his loss, wondering if he felt the same ache, the same tightness in his chest, when he watched her.)

( _Hodnes laik kwelnes_ , she reminds herself. What ache? What pain? What heart?)

* * *

In the end, it is an anticlimactic victory.

The Ice Nation, still weak from the war years ago, unsupported and alone, fell quickly and easily. Lexa watches with a mixture of relief and sadness as her warriors press their blades against the throats of the Queen’s guards. She watches, with a mixture of satisfaction and loss, as Rox pulls the Queen herself to her feet, off of her enormous throne, and shoves her forward, her frail body only just keeping her on her feet. Lexa watches, with a mixture of distaste and sorrow, as Rox pushes the Queen—a girl, only a few years older than Lexa, frail and thin, dark hair pulled back in braids, dressed not like a warrior, but in robes—to her knees, forcing her to look up as Lexa steps over to her.

“Surrender,” Lexa says, the single word echoing in the massive room of the palace. The Ice Queen—Vonne, she heard people call her—blinks at Lexa, shaking her head just a tad.

“You have changed, _Leksa_ _kom Trikru,_ ” she says, her voice high, her tone grating. “I remember you as a soft leader, a girl who would spare the life of her enemy.”

“I made a point.”

“You were merciful,” she shoots back, raising an eyebrow, daring Lexa to argue further. “But now look. The soft, merciful leader I remember has turned into a battle-hardened warrior. The bringer of peace.”

“Surrender,” Lexa repeats, her hand on the hilt of her sword, standing tall, straight, regally. Vonne smiles, shaking her head once more.

“Perhaps it was the loss of that girl that makes you so hard.” Lexa’s grip on the hilt of her weapon tightens, and the Queen’s smile grows, knowing she has hit her mark. It is a ploy, a final defense—she knows it is over, but is using one final play, one final attempt to make peace fall apart by making Lexa lose control. “She strayed into our lands, Commander Lexa. I had no choice but to take her.”

“She was in one of our villages,” Rox growls, pressing his blade against the Queen’s throat. “She was working for _heda_.”

“Oh, now. We both now she did more than work for your _heda_ ,” the Ice Queen says, chuckling, ignoring Rox’s sword entirely, acting like it was not even there.

“You are bitter over your loss, Queen Vonne. You words mean nothing,” Rox states, a furious expression on his face. “ _Heda_ has brought peace.”  

“Do you truly think you have accomplished anything? Truly united us?” Vonne asks, addressing Lexa. “We are twelve Clans with generations of conflict, with generations of grudges and resentments. How long will this hard won peace of yours last?”

“You may not want peace, but your people do. My people do.” Lexa’s words make the Queen smile and she shakes her head sadly.

“Ah, there she is—the leader with the soft heart. Perhaps killing the girl wasn’t what made you hard after all.”

“Do you surrender or not?”

“Does it matter? You wish to kill me either way.” Her eyes flit over to her helpless guards and a look of determination settles on her face. “Shall I tell you of how she screamed when I had her tortured?” she says suddenly, her eyes suddenly alight with fury and hatred. “You train them well, Commander. She told me nothing.” Rox presses further into her neck, but Lexa holds up a hand, advancing closer to the Queen, trying to keep her shaking hands steady.

“Do you surrender?”

“I was impressed, truly,” Vonne continues, ignoring Lexa’s question entirely. “The pain she must have tolerated, and I knew, I knew that nothing but the truest of loves could have compelled her to suffer so much.” Her eyes, full of anger, full of hatred, full of a desire to hurt, meet Lexa’s. “But do not worry, Commander. I set her straight.”

“What?” she asks, unable to help herself, the one word escaping her lips despite all her efforts to remain silent. The Queen smiles victoriously, her grin vicious, and for the first time, Lexa realizes she hates this woman—not for what she did, but for the joy she took in others’ pain.

“I explained to her the truth, that’s all. That you are a leader. That I am a leader. That, as leaders, we care for no one.” Something must register on Lexa’s face, because Vonne’s grin widens, knowing she has been successful, knowing that she has hit her mark once again (knowing she is one step closer to breaking Lexa’s control). “You and I, Commander, are very similar. We were children when called to lead, we both watched our mothers die. And now, we both know the dangers of caring for others.” She leans back against Rox’s legs, unable to keep herself up, unfazed when he kicks her off him. “I take credit for teaching that lesson. For making you hard. Your peace is as much my accomplishment as it is yours.”

“Do you surrender?” Lexa asks, trying not to think, trying not to imagine, trying not to burn with the desire to kill the woman in front of her. Vonne lets out a long-suffering sigh, as if Lexa had kept her waiting, as if Lexa had not asked this question several times before.  

“Yes, _Leksa kom Trikru_ , I surrender,” she concedes, nodding her head, like she was doing Lexa a favor. “I am big enough to admit defeat. Are you?” Rox does not even give time for Lexa to answer the clear taunt, the clear challenge. He hits Vonne in the head with the hilt of his sword, knocking her out, and when Lexa looks up at him, his gaze is hard, unmerciful, unforgiving.

“Costia knew,” he says, looking away, watching as their warriors drag the Queen out of the room, as it all came to an end. “She knew you loved her.”

“Yes, she did. But that wasn’t the point.”

“Then what?”

“She knew. And my defeat is that she died because of it.”

* * *

In her first week back in Polis, she finds that her people have planted something new in her garden, something that grows a large, white, pleasant-smelling flower. She finds gifts in front of her home, and if she leaves to walk around Polis, her people press things into her hands—jewelry, weapons, clothing, sweets. A child—newly made second—gives her his share of honeycake, and the action takes her so by surprise that she nearly forgets herself in the middle of the street.

Then there are celebrations she does not take part in, festivities that she ignores. War drums beat until late at night, there is dancing, people paint their faces, eat and drink with their new allies (Polis surges with new citizens, people from the Boat Clan, from the Massa Clan, from the Nomads). Through it all, Lexa sits in her library, flips through Isolde’s favorites, looks out the window, watching her people take joy in their peace.

“ _Heda_ , Gustus and Anya are looking for you again.”

“Where did you say I was?” she asks without turning around. Jon is the only one she speaks to, the only one whose presence she can tolerate. He is smart, fiercely loyal, and Lexa likes him, likes him because he is one of her people, nothing more.

“Told them you had gone with a few warriors on a hunt.”

“Good.” There is silence for a minute, so long that she thinks he has gone after reporting his news. But then she hears footsteps approach her, and she turns to see the boy staring wide-eyed at all the books.

“What are these for, _heda_?” he asks, tentatively reaching out before catching himself and standing straight, his hands clasped behind his back.

“They are new worlds, Jon. Words that make you less alone.” The aide forgets himself again, and he reaches out, his fingers skimming along the spine of the closest book. “Do you know how to read?” she asks him. Jon looks up in shock, shaking his head quickly.

“Oh no, _heda_.” He smiles slightly, looking back at the books. “Does it work? Does it make you feel less alone?”

“Yes. It works.”

“I am glad,” he says, bowing low. He turns to leave, and for whatever reason, Lexa feels compelled to talk—compelled to say something.

“Would you like to learn?” Jon frowns. “To read? Do you want to learn?”

“ _Heda_ , I am only an aide. And the Elders say it is unnecessary.”

“So? I am offering. Do you want to learn?” Something about his answering smile makes the tightness in her chest disappear for just a moment. Something about the glow in his eyes makes Lexa want to smile.

“Yes, _heda_ ,” he says, his smile growing ever wider, as if it was no longer under his control. “I would like to learn.”

“Pull up a chair.” And a moment later, with Jon sitting across from her, staring at her with wide, excited eyes, Lexa remembers Isolde.

( _Hodnes laik kwelnes_ , she thinks, nearly managing to convince herself the burning in her eyes is not from unshed tears.)

* * *

 _Change comes slowly_ , she once said. It comes today.

Disbanding the Guard, giving them a new role—protection of Polis rather than the job of weeding out thinkers, artists, musicians—was easy. Sending messengers into the streets, announcing that Isolde’s former laws have been revoked, withdrawn, was easy. Abolishing the practice of sorting children into groups, choosing their place in life before they were old enough to know better, was easy.

Listening to the Elders argue about why she could not do such things, however, was difficult.

“Commander, I understand what you are trying to do,” Esther says, shaking her head, the other Elders urging her on. “But these are not merely Isolde’s laws that you take back. These are laws we’ve had for as long as we can remember.”

“They are laws put into place to ensure our survival. We have peace with the other Clans—there is more room for frivolity.”

“And what if a Clan decides they no longer want peace? What if Queen Vonne starts another war? What will we do if our children grow up learning nonsense like music and not the art of war?” Lexa presses her fingers against her temples.

“I never said they would not train. They merely have the choice to pursue other interests now. Nothing will change, not really. Only that those who hide their talents now no longer will have to hide.” The Elders turn to each other, nod vigorously as they whispered, and then they turn back to her, staring at her with blank expressions.

“The Elders are in accordance, Lexa. We believe you have lost the Spirit,” Esther says, her voice strong despite the fear in her eyes.

“Have I?”

“Yes. You are taking our laws for granted, putting your own desires in front of the survival of your people. We highly urge you to reconsider, or else a new Commander will be put in place.” Lexa stands, her eyes only for Esther—only for that one specific Elder.

“Impressive show of bravery, Esther,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Especially for someone who cowered before me.” She steps away from the table, heads to the door, and opens it, letting in the Guard—tasked to protect Polis, to protect her, to protect the interests of her people—and then returns to her spot at the table. “Two years ago, you all made these same threats, and now I will tell you all what I told Esther: the people are not on your side.”

“ _Heda_ —”

“You see,” she says, calm, sure, unforgiving, speaking over the Elder without a single thought. “I have given warnings. I have been lenient. But it seems the Elders no longer serve the purpose they were intended to serve. Rather than aide the Commander, acting as her guide and protector, you believe you can control her, dictate to her, even threaten her.” She nods, and the members of the Guard draw their weapons. “I gave you all a chance. You chose not to take it. And unlike Isolde, my respect for the old ways is limited. So now, you must accept the consequences of your actions.”

“You cannot do this, _heda_ ,” Esther says, shaking her head. Lexa’s gaze is hard as she answers.

“Change is here, Elder. And it has no use for you.” She nods once more, turning away, leaving behind a sea of blood.

( _She will bring the change I cannot_ , she once said. Now, she does it in her place.)

* * *

“All twelve Clan leaders in once place at one time—it has not happened before,” Gustus says, eyeing Lexa oddly.

“We must finalize the Coalition.”

“It sounds risky,” he says, still eying her oddly.

“You think everything is a risk.”

“When it concerns your life, _heda_ , everything is a risk,” he says, and Lexa finally sighs.

“Speak freely, Gustus.”

“Killing the Elders may have been hasty,” he tells her, finally coming to sit next to her, filling up his plate with fruit, slabs of meat, and bread. “Especially if the other Clan leaders will be coming to Polis in a few weeks time.”

“Killing the Elders was overdue. I am the Commander—I do not take well to threats.”

“You should have let me take care of it.”

“Your job is to protect me, Gustus, nothing more.” She does not miss the flash of pain on his face, but she ignores it, ignores the pain—the squeezing in her chest—because she knows better now.

“I loved Isolde too. I cared for Costia too. You are not the only one who bears their loss.”

“That is not what I meant when I said speak freely, Gustus,” she says, pushing her food away, getting to her feet.

“Lexa—”

“No. I am your _heda_. Nothing more.” She does not give him the chance to speak. She walks off, incensed, sorry, troubled, pained, broken, and she is so preoccupied with the tightness in her chest—her heart’s constant struggle to beat, her lungs’ constant attempts to inflate and deflate—that she barely sees Rox before she runs right into him.

“Upset, _heda_?” he asks the moment she gets her bearings, falling in step behind her as she continues to walk as far away from Gustus as possible.

“No.”

“I heard about the dissenters. Is that what you worry about?”

“No. They got their warning, now they will face the consequences.”

“Not even Isolde killed people for disagreeing with her.”

“No, but she did kill them for breaking her laws. And the Coalition is law—we are at peace with the other Clans.”

“It takes time, _heda_ ,” Rox argues, grabbing her elbow, pulling her to a stop. She pulls away roughly, glaring at him—at his presumption—and continues to walk towards the garden, where her people have planted something new, something that grows large, white, pleasant-smelling flowers. She walks to the garden, where the hanging vine blooms. “It takes time for people to get used to the idea of peace. You cannot erase generations of strife in an afternoon!”

“You believe I am being harsh, ruthless.”

“I believe you are taking this too far.”

“If a few must die to ensure our survival, so be it,” she snaps, on edge because of Gustus, fraying at those edges because of Rox. “I am doing what it takes to survive.” 

“Yes, but you have forgotten why.” He lets out a heavy sigh, as if he is the one who carries a burden on his back. As if he is the one plagued with petty fights, death threats, and an immense responsibility to keep everyone alive. “You once said you would make the Coalition for Darrin. For my son, for the other sons and daughters. The peace was so that our children could live in a better world.” She can see the same lethargy from before, the same pain in his eyes, the same slouch of his back. She sees it, and she feels the ache in her chest again, the tightness, and she wants to go to her brother, embrace him, tell him that that is exactly what she is doing—that she is building a future for the Darrins of the world. But instead, she holds her head up high, keeps her gaze cold.

“Your son is dead,” she says, and she regrets it the second the words come out of her mouth because Rox closes his eyes, pressing them shut, his shoulders shuddering, as if he is holding back sobs. She regrets the words, but she dares not take them back. (Because Darrin is a loss she has not allowed herself to think of, a loss she is not allowed to contemplate. Because she fell in love with the child, with his tiny toes and fingers, his little breathing sounds, his gentle yawns, and he is gone. Gone like her mother and father. Gone like Isolde. Gone like her.)

“I know,” Rox answers softly. “I was there when illness took him.” His eyes are still closed as he continues, his voice gradually getting louder, gradually becoming more forceful. “I was there when Anya took you away. Watched as you closed yourself off. I was there when you became _heda_. Watched as you struggled beneath the weight of your burden. And I am here now.” His eyes open, meeting Lexa’s squarely, determined and hard. “But Lexa, I cannot watch anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks, though she knows. ( _Hodnes laik kwelnes,_ she thinks.)

“Through it all, you were always you.” His voice is soft again, as if the fight has left him. As if he has given up. “I could see father’s strength, mother’s kindness, your own selflessness. You were an anomaly. The bringer of change.” His hands shake, and shockingly, his eyes fill with tears. (It is the first time she has seen her brother cry since they were children, since he asked her to leave and never come back, and somehow, Lexa knows where this is going). “But now that the world is changing, as your vision comes true, you have been lost. My Lexa, my sister, my _heda_ , my Commander, is broken. And I don’t know how to put you back together, and I cannot watch as you fall further apart.” Lexa stares at him, knowing where this is going (where she must take it), wishing she were brave enough to shed tears too. Wishing she had the luxury of being weak. ( _Hodnes laik kwelnes_ , she thinks, she knows, she believes.)

“Then leave,” she tells him sharply, giving him what he wants—an out, an escape, a respite. “I have no need for you as my advisor. Take Wren and go.” Rox does not speak. He merely steps forward, pressing a light kiss to her forehead, then walks away, leaving her alone in the garden. She waits exactly a minute before allowing herself to collapse onto the ground, laying on the grass, staring up at the blue sky. She feels faint, feels dirty, feels relieved.

( _Hodnes laik kwelnes_ , she thinks. And look how weak her brother is.)

* * *

“Indra wanted to kill him. But I said that exile would be more appropriate. He lives near the Reaper caves, foolish boy. A waste of a warrior.”

“How do you like Tondc?” Lexa asks, interrupting Anya’s progress report, looking up at her former mentor.

“It is not nearly as interesting in Polis. But I will make do. Why? Do you wish me to return?” Long ago, this comment would have made her laugh, made her chuckle. But Jon came by earlier to let her know that Rox and Wren had disappeared (she dares not tell her aide that she told them to go, dares not admit that she gave such an option to a warrior), and that Tris needed a new mentor. Long ago, nothing depended on her, and she was free to laugh. Now, she is not too sure if the force of a laugh would break her ribs—ribs that already struggle beneath so much weight.

“No. I wish you to take Tris. She will be your new second.” Anya frowns, eying Lexa with a guarded expression.

“ _Heda_ , I heard Rox left, but…perhaps Tris should remain here?” She phrases it as a question and Lexa knows it is because she is worried about how Lexa will react.

“No. She should be far away from me. You will train her.”

“Lexa,” Anya begins hesitantly, the use of her name not going unnoticed. But Lexa does not react, refuses to. She keeps still, her head raised high, her gaze as cool as ever, her expression schooled into a mask of indifference. “The pain will pass.” The words, so achingly familiar, so terribly untrue, nearly breaks the last of Lexa’s control and restraint.

“You once promised not to lie to me, Anya.”

“We are all liars, _heda_.” She is silent for a moment, then sighs. “You sent Rox away—don’t pretend you didn’t,” she says, noticing that Lexa is ready to argue, “because I have known you for much too long to be fooled by your lies.” She huffs in satisfaction when Lexa closes her mouth, and then continues. “You sent Rox away, you have turned Gustus into nothing more than your protector, you killed the Elders, and now you’re sending me off with Tris.” She leans forward, eyeing Lexa carefully. “Is this how you choose to protect your heart, _heda_? By keeping your distance?”

“Rox asked to leave. The Elders were insubordinate. Gustus treats me like a child, and you were already in Tondc. Sending Tris with you is a compliment—you are a great mentor.” She raises her eyebrows. “This is strategy, nothing more.” Anya stares at her, and for a moment, Lexa is sure she will argue. But then, Anya nods, inclining her head.

“You are a liar, Lexa,” she says, her smile lachrymose, the words taking Lexa back in time, back to when she feared Isolde, when she missed her family, when she still thought of everything in terms of tests (something she has ceased, because it only occurs to her now that they were never tests, but preparations. Never something to pass or fail, but something to get through, much like the pain, much like the sorrow). “That is good.”

* * *

The other Clan leaders, all thrust together in a single room, are a sight to behold.

From Trina—in her oddly colored clothes, her bony face—to Tomas, with his suntanned skin, his muscular arms. They look equally nervous and annoyed, and Lexa is sure that they are barely keeping themselves under control.

“Elma, is that a rock around your neck?” Gavin asks, raising his eyebrows. Elma—the leader of the Mountain Clan, to Gavin’s east, merely scowls, obviously accustomed to the remark.

“Gavin is one to speak,” Pel says, running his fingers through his hair. “Do you hide a second man beneath your shirt? Or have you truly gotten so fat?”

“The last time I saw you, you were merely a boy, soiling your pants after one of my men made a joke about the Mountain Men,” Gavin shoots back, glaring at the younger man. This causes Trina and Luna to snort simultaneously, and Pel to settle back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Of course Trina and Luna get along,” Gail mutters, rolling her eyes. “The Nomads and the Boat People. More alike than we will ever know.”

“Are you jealous because you are landlocked, Gail?” Luna asks, smiling slightly. “I hear you and Alford speak often of that problem.” Alford—the Chief of the Stone Clan—clears his throat uncomfortably, but Gail rolls her eyes.

“Is that the best you can do, Luna? You, who have been shielded by the Tree People, safe to get fat in your little of the corner?”

“Do you wish to fight, to see just how fat I’ve gotten?” Luna asks, standing. Gail—who had probably not expected a challenge—merely coughs and looks away.

“How long will you allow these fools to continue their squabbling?” Vonne asks Lexa, and immediately the other Clan leaders fall silent (for they know, they know what Vonne has done, and Lexa has heard their whispers, how they found it strange that she would sacrifice her own justice for her people—for peace). “Such pettiness when we are here to make history.”

“You’re one to speak of history,” Ava—the leader of the Massa People—remarks, her brown eyes focused hatefully on Vonne. “You have history with every Clan. Bad history.”

“Enough,” Lexa finally says, getting to her feet. Clement, Chieftain of the Mary Clan, hands her a knife. “Who here can read and write?” Unsurprisingly, Vonne holds up a hand. After a beat, Clement, Trina, and Alford do as well. “Good, that means four of you can confirm what I write, so that none of you have to merely take me at my word.”

“Oh, Commander, we all trust your word. Otherwise, we would not be here,” Trina remarks. Pel snorts and Vonne raises her eyebrows, otherwise, no one comments.

“All the same, it is better this way.” She holds up a long piece of paper, three-fourths of it covered with her neat, tight, carefully written scrawl. “I read once that long ago, men like us—leaders who wanted the best for themselves and their people—came together to sign a declaration, to make a statement that would be their legacy.” She takes the knife and slices her palm, allowing a drop of her blood to land at the bottom of the paper. “This is our declaration. And it will be bound by our blood.” With a nod, each leader takes out their own knife, and the declaration is passed among them, each of them slicing their palm smearing the bottom of the page with blood. None of them read it, none of them ask what is written on it—either a mark of their stupidity, or the first indication of the trust they are placing in her. When they are all done, Lexa takes the paper and hangs it on the wall in the war room with the knife Clement gave her, before turning back to the others. “It is bound by our blood, but it will not die with us,” she says. She wants to say more, but it was Isolde who was the speaker, the speechmaker, so she merely falls silent, waiting to hear someone else.

Instead, they hear someone play a song.

It sounds much like the violin Lexa heard so long ago, and it is quickly joined by the war drums and horns, and other instruments Lexa has never heard, and the sound is beautiful and it is hard won, and Lexa can do nothing but sit there, watch as the other Clan leaders get to their feet and leave to go celebrate with their people (for that is what they are—a single unit, a Coalition, peace finally brought to the twelve clans). She sits there, listening to the music, her eyes on the piece of paper—with its carefully chosen words, written over the course of weeks in her tight, neat scrawl. (She thinks she should feel something, relief, joy, perhaps a lessening of the weight on her chest and shoulders and back. But she feels nothing. It is an emptiness that has lingered since her death, an emptiness—a brokenness—she does not think will ever go away.)

“Will you not celebrate with the rest of us, _heda_?” Trina asks, breaking into Lexa’s thoughts. She suddenly realizes the older woman had stayed behind, had been watching her.

“No, I think I will stay alone.”

“Yes,” she answers softly, nodding like she understands. “Being alone is often better.”

“Is it your choice as well?” She has no idea why she asks, why she bothers with continuing this conversation at all, except for the fact that Trina sounds like she understands—like she has felt or is feeling that same absence—and Lexa wants and needs to hear the older woman’s thoughts.

“Oh, _heda_ ,” she says, giving Lexa an indecipherable look, her tone sad and knowing. “People are rarely ever alone by choice.”

“Harden your heart,” Lexa intones, and Trina nods, nods though she has no idea what meaning the words truly hold for Lexa, though she could not possibly know what Lexa feels (except, except that there is no doubt in her mind that Trina does. Does know, does understand).

“Harden your heart,” she agrees.

* * *

The scout is breathing heavily, his hair matted with sweat despite the cold.

“ _Heda_ ,” he says, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, his eyes wide, his cheeks red from exertion. “ _Heda,_ ” he repeats, “Anya has sent me. She sent me to warn you.”

“About?” The question sounds merely curious to her ears, but her heart thuds, worry blossoms, and she knows, she knows, her hard won Coalition is about to be put to its first test.

“Some sort of vessel has fallen into our lands, _heda_.” He takes several gaping breaths, his chest slowly ceasing its heaving, a fake calm taking the place of his panic as he finally manages to bring himself under control. “Commander,” he says, swallowing hard. “People have fallen from the sky.”

 


	13. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are on the ground now, Clarke, not among the stars. We all fight through the pain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to "For the Love of a Princess" by James Horner while writing this. Highly recommend it. Also, sorry about this chapter, I know it's terrible. Come bug me about it on tumblr at theahhamoment.

**Five**

Days after the scout’s breathless report, Anya arrives in Polis, looking tired and worn. Lexa does not even need to speak before her former mentor tells her everything she wants to know.

“There are about a hundred of them,” she says, pulling up a chair, sitting across from Lexa, not questioning the books and papers that surround her. “Children, few of them older than sixteen or seventeen summers.” She leans back in her chair, taking a deep breath. “Indra, of course, says that they are invaders, that we should kill them.”

“But you?”

“They fell from the sky, _heda_. And they do not seem dangerous.” She pauses, frowning.  “Though, a few of them strayed too close to the Mountain, and we were forced to redirect them.”

“Did any die?”

“I do not think so.”

“So you believe we should let them be?” Anya stares at Lexa without speaking, and Lexa sighs, knowing that her former mentor is waiting for her decision. “Leave them be. If they manage to survive the winter, we can revisit the issue.”

“And if they become a threat?”

“Kill them all.” Anya nods in understanding, getting to her feet and heading towards the door.

“ _Heda_ , are you doing well?” she asks suddenly, pausing briefly.

“I am.” Anya nods, and she opens her mouth like she wants to say more, but ultimately merely nods a second time and leaves without another word.

(Weeks later, Anya sends a messenger, letting Lexa know about the Sky People’s attack on their villages. She asks for warriors, which Lexa gladly sends.)

(Less than a week later, scouts tell Lexa that the Sky People destroyed a bridge, that Anya has failed. Lexa sends Tristan to relieve her, wanting to end this new danger—this newest threat to her Coalition.)

(Only days after that, Lexa hears of the ring of fire, hears of the death of three hundred of her warriors—hears of Anya’s demise—and she wishes, she wished, she had asked her mentor what she wanted to say, had forced her to speak. But it is too late, it is always too late.)

(More people fall from the sky, there is a massacre in one of her villages, there is news of rumblings within the Mountain, all of this not giving Lexa the chance to think, the chance to mourn, the chance to breathe. She sets out immediately, deciding it is time she takes matters into her own hands—tired of the looks Gustus gives her, his warnings about the fragility of the alliance.)

(She will keep the peace, she thinks.)

(She will protect her people, she promises.)

(She will kill the Sky People, she swears.)

* * *

She has met other Sky People, namely Marcus and Thelonious.

They are weak, silly, obsessed with ridiculous notions of right and wrong and survival, and Lexa cares little for them. But she does learn many things: She learns that they are not the monsters she imagined them to be (they are not like the Mountain Men, turning her warriors into Reapers, killing her people). They are weak, yet fight tooth and claw for survival. She hates them—for all they have done, for everything they have said—but she finds she is reluctantly impressed with Marcus, with his hope for peace (a hope she told him she shared, a hope she told him she had turned into a reality before his people came blazing down from the sky).

She has met other Sky People, and she does not care for them.

The girl is different.

She wants to intimidate the girl—intimidate her like she intimidated the Elders, like she did to the other Clan leaders, like she has done since she became Commander—but the girl stands tall, head raised, unfazed by Gustus’s treats, Indra’s angry yelling, or Lexa’s cool indifference. (She wants to intimidate the girl, and it is minutes within their meeting, when the girl continues to speak on behalf of her people despite everything, that Lexa finds she respects this Sky Person. Respects the one with the blonde hair and the deep blue eyes. Respects this girl who is the true leader of the _Skaikru_.)

(She respects the girl through the emotional manipulation she attempts by handing her Anya’s—Anya, Anya, Anya, her mentor, her sister, her friend, gone, another one gone—braid. Respects her as she tells her of ways to defeat the Mountain. Respects her when she claims she can Reapers back into men.)

And when Lexa stands, invading the girl’s personal space—impressed with how she does not step back, does not wither beneath Lexa’s gaze, does not crumble—she asks the girl to prove it (peace without war, she thinks; eliminating the Mountain, she promises; returning warriors home, she swears—she is _heda_ , she is _heda_ ).

(Her thoughts are only for her people, she is certain.)

(Except, she is glad Clarke of the Sky People has something to offer her, and she is not quite sure why.)

* * *

Gustus’s warnings fall on deaf ears, and he knows it.

It does not, however, stop him from continuing to give the warnings. He tries talking her out of this newest alliance as they ride to what Clarke had called the ‘dropship’ (Lexa merely nods). He tries it again on the ride back, after Lincoln’s life is saved, citing the burned warriors, citing the Sky People’s readiness to fight (Lexa, however, cannot stop seeing the ashes of her warriors—men and women who fought and died because she asked them to, men and women who had families, who shared her vision for a better future—and she ignores him). He tries yet again after the Sky People seem willing to let everything fall apart for one murderous boy—one killer of innocents. (This is when Lexa is closest to giving in to Gustus. After all, how could she be in an alliance with a group of people who believed one life of theirs was worth more than eighteen of hers? How could she fight with them when they cared so little for her people’s blood, her people’s justice? She would not be worthy of her people if she gave into the _Skaikru’s_ cries for sparing the boy. She killed Glen for less, she killed Frieda for less. What made the Sky People’s lives or beliefs anymore valid or right?)

She knows what she is doing is right, yet when she notices Clarke walk up to Indra—watches as the tip of the spear breaks skin, draws blood—she finds that there is a wild moment that she would give anything to keep this girl from witnessing the death of someone she loved. But the moment passes quickly, and she remembers: She is _heda_. She belongs to her people.

“Let her pass,” she calls, letting Clarke come closer. “You bleed for nothing. You cannot stop this.”

“No, only you can,” Clarke says, her blue eyes shining in the darkness, something about the pain twisted on her face sending a pang throughout Lexa’s body. (She hurts with this Sky Girl. She does not wish to inflict pain, not when she knows how much leaders suffer.) The rumblings of her people brings Lexa back: Did the boy think of the pain he inflicted when he killed eighteen of her people? Did he realize he had torn apart families? Had stolen fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters? Had taken the innocent from this world, those who had suffered much during her war, those who had just begun to have hope for a future? Why should she care for this Sky Girl’s pain when she clearly did not care for the pain of Lexa’s people? “Show my people how powerful you are. Show them you can be merciful. Show them you’re not a savage.” It is a tactic. Of course it is, Lexa has known this girl for a short time, yet it seems like eons. For Clarke is a leader, her power coming from words, attempting to manipulate those around her into doing as she asks. But Lexa too is a leader, and she is far better at it.

“We are what we are,” she says, not falling for the obvious ploy, not letting Clarke play on her ego, on her emotions. They are both leaders, but Lexa was born for this, trained for this, and she is not so easily swayed.

“Then I’m a killer,” Clarke says, and this is different. This is not a ploy, not a tactic. This is Lexa arguing for Glen’s life—recognizing on some basic level that her life was not worth more than his. This is giving up her own chance at justice to bring her people peace. This is selflessness, and Lexa realizes she has underestimated Clarke. She is not merely a leader—she is an anomaly. “I burned three hundred of your people. I slit a man’s throat and watched him die. I’m soaked in Grounder blood. Take me.” The plea, much like Gustus’s warnings, falls on deaf ears.

“But Finn is guilty.”

“No!” Clarke says, her voice beginning to break, no longer even attempting to hide the desperation she feels. “He did it for me.” There is a short pause, and all of Clarke’s masks and pretenses fall. She is a girl, not a leader, a child in that moment. “He did it for me,” she repeats, her lips twisting around the words, pain etched into her face. She shows every inch of what she is feeling, every ounce of pain, of desperation, of unadulterated grief, and Lexa understands. Lexa knows what Clarke feels—has felt it all before—so though her words are harsh (they must be harsh, she is _heda_ ), her tone is soft.

“Then he dies for you.” Clarke looks down, determination replacing all the feelings from before, and there is a moment—short and fateful—that Lexa is sure Clarke will attempt to attack her. While not the logical choice, she can understand it, understand the desire to do whatever is in your power to save a loved one. She understands, and she waits. Waits to see what Clarke will do. Clarke turns slowly back to her, and Lexa suddenly recognizes something else in Clarke’s cold, blue eyes: Acceptance. 

“Can I say goodbye?” She knows this is not their way. She knows, instinctively, she should not allow this, but she thinks of Anya, of all those she has lost and how she would give anything for a chance to say goodbye, and she nods, watching as Clarke runs to the murderer, watching as she kisses him, watching as she sheds pointless tears for him, watching as she moves back, her front and hands stained with blood, the boy’s head falling to his chest. (Lexa tries not to see Glen, tries not to remember how Isolde’s warpaint looked, how her hands had shook, how Glen’s eyes closed before she ran him through, how the air was filled with the scent of blood—how she has smelled of blood since that day. She tries, but she is unsuccessful, for it is all she sees.) She stares, thinking she should have seen this coming (for Clarke is selfless, offering her life, risking her life, sparing the boy pain yet giving Lexa’s people what they wanted: his death), and it is only when her warriors begin to charge that she finally speaks up.

“It is done,” she orders, turning back to stare at Clarke’s bloodstained hands, but more importantly, at her tearstained cheeks.

* * *

“She shows contempt for our laws!” Indra says, her voice harsh. Lexa’s eyes stray towards the tent they threw the Sky Girl in, kept under guard until a decision about her actions was made. “She stole our justice.”

“The boy is dead,” Gustus says, forcing Lexa to turn to him, “but his death had no cost. Those eighteen lives he stole have not been paid.” She can hear the mumblings of her warriors, hear whispers—“This is the _heda_ who gave up her own justice for peace. She would do it again”—but she pays it no mind.

“His death has a cost,” she says, her eyes back on the tent. “Tell them I will speak to them.” Gustus looks like he wishes to argue, but he merely nods and does as she asks. Indra, however, has no reservations.

“ _Heda_ , you cannot allow this to stand.”

“Trust me, Indra,” she says, shaking her head. “Your people will get their justice.” Without waiting for a response, she walks into the tent, head held high, watching Clarke closely—watching the mask she puts up, watching as she hardens herself as Lexa has done a million times before.

She sits at her chair, eyes on Clarke, and speaks. “Blood has answered blood. Some on my side say that’s not enough. They wanted the murderer to suffer as our tradition demands.” She stresses the word tradition, feeling a prickling of anger at Clarke’s earlier use of _savage_. Who is the true savage, she wishes to ask, the one who killed eighteen innocents or the one who demands punishment? “But,” she continues, “they do not know that your suffering will be worse. What you did tonight will haunt you until the end of your days.” She can tell, from the look on the woman’s face, on Marcus’s face, that this comment sounds cruel. But it is the truth—she speaks from experience. “Still, there will be restitution. The body will be given to the people of Tondc, murderer and murdered joined by fire. Only then can we have peace.” It is a demand, it is an order, it is non-negotiable, yet the only one who seems aware of this is Clarke. As Marcus and the woman argue with Indra, Clarke merely looks down, her eyes vacant and lost.

“We’ll do it,” she says, interrupting Indra without looking at her. “But when it’s over,” she continues, her voice thick, her eyes still vacant, “we talk about how to get our people out of Mount Weather. All of our people.”

“We want the same things, Clarke.” She does not know why she says it, why she feels the need to reassure the Sky Girl, but she thinks it has something to do with the vacant, lost gaze. She thinks it has to do with how she once again feels the pain Clarke is feeling.

“Good. When do we leave?” Lexa pushes back her feelings, pushes back the sudden sympathy, and regains her cold, harsh mask.

“Now,” she says, getting to her feet. “Choose your attendants.”

* * *

Lexa decides it is high time to acknowledge Gustus’s warnings.

“Stop worrying,” she tells him. “Like you’ve always told me, all alliances are risky.” Gustus turns to her, and she can practically feel the weight of his hand on the top of her head, his own form of showing affection.

“This is not the same as uniting the twelve Clans,” he says, eyes focused on the front. “These Sky People are different. They are more like the Mountain Men than us. It could kill our Coalition.” Lexa nearly sighs.

“Our Coalition, or me?” she asks. It is meant to be dry, sarcastic, for her to show him that he has not fooled her for a second.

“ _Yu sou laik kongeda-de_ , _heda_ ,” he says, simply and strongly. You are the Coalition, he tells her, and Lexa turns to him in surprise. It is not merely a comment on her importance (an importance she has never considered) but it sounds vaguely like an affirmation. It sounds like he would put her before their people, their people’s needs. But this is Gustus, the man who drilled those very first lessons into her head, the one who taught her how to sacrifice everything for her people, and she realizes she must have understood wrong.

“Then do your job and protect me,” she says, creating distance, needing the distance.

* * *

“I lost someone special to me too.” She knows what prompts this confession, she knows. But she refuses to dwell on it. “Her name was Costia.” It is the first time, the very first time, she has allowed herself to say Costia’s name aloud since her death. It is the first time, the very first time, she is admitting her weakness out loud. “She was captured by the Ice Nation, whose Queen believed she knew my secrets.” The words come with difficulty now, and the mantra— _hodnes laik kwelnes_ —flashes through her mind incessantly. “Because she was mine, they tortured her, killed her, cut off her head.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, but Lexa swallows hard, forging on.

“I thought I’d never get over the pain,” she says, “but I did.” ( _You are a liar_ , she hears Anya voice ring in her head. _That is good._ )

“How?”

“By recognizing it for what it is,” she turns to Clarke, needing her to hear this. Needing her to understand. “Weakness.”

“What is? Love?” Lexa nods, looking away. “So you just stopped caring? About everyone?” Lexa nods again, not looking at Clarke. ( _You are a liar,_ she hears again. _That is good._ ) “I could never do that.”

“Then you put the people you care about in danger, and the pain will never go away. The dead are gone, Clarke,” Lexa says, meeting Clarke’s eyes. “The living are hungry.”

* * *

As things fall apart, she wonders if she should have seen this coming.

“Gustus would never harm me,” she says, raising her chin.

“You weren’t the target,” the boy—Bellamy—says, his eyes on Gustus. “The alliance was.” She remembers Gustus’s words, she remembers the doubt that crept into her mind when he spoke of her importance, and she finds herself turning to him, facing him with a blank expression, a hardened heart.

“You’ve been accused, Gustus,” she says, raising her chin even higher. “Speak true.”

“This alliance would cost you your life, _heda_ ,” he says, not looking sorry, not looking at all regretful. “I could not let that happen.” She stares at him, remembers the dried fruits in his pockets, the hand on her head, his soft words, his gentle guidance. She stares at him and her heart slams to a stop because he has brought this on himself.

“This treachery will cost you yours.” He stares back at her, no indication of surprise or disappointment on his features, but she knows that when she orders him to be tied to the post, he is the only one who sees the pain pass over her face, the only one who notices her clenched jaw, the only one who knows that she is biting back her emotions.

(And then she watches as her people slice into her mentor, her protector, her friend, her father, and she cannot say a word, cannot show a reaction. She watches, and when it is her turn, she steps forward, not noticing that Indra looks away, not noticing Clarke’s eyes on her, not noticing anyone but Gustus. _She is twelve again_. Her people need her. _She sees Glen_. The Mountain must be defeated. _There is the scent of blood in the air—she thinks it comes from her own hands_. Her people need peace. _She is twelve again_. Her hands are shaking again, someone she loves is dying again _._ ) 

“ _Ste yuj_ ,” he says, as if she will not be able to do this. Stay strong, he tells her, as if her strength will fail in this critical moment. But he knows—she can tell from his eyes, from the way his face falls—that she has done this before (that she will likely do this again), that her strength will not fail her now. He knows, yet he tells her to stay strong. Gustus, who has known her for so long, who is a father, a friend, a mentor, a protector, tells her to stay strong because he saw her fall apart after Glen. He saw her hobble on after Isolde. He saw her harden after Costia. And he has thought long and hard about the same thing that Lexa thinks now:

How many times? How many times can a person fall apart, break down, shatter and crumble, before it is impossible to put the pieces haphazardly back together? How many times can one be racked with sorrow and rattled by the pain of loss before there is no point in fighting on? How many times can your entire world shift and knock you off balance before the lines blur until you lose yourself entirely?

How many times, she wonders, can parts of her perish before no force, no power, no command can bring her back?

Gustus does not tell her to stay strong because he believes she will be unable to perform the act that will end his life (she is _heda_ , he broke her laws—“The Sky People march with us now, she said, “anyone who tries to stop that will pay with their life”—he must die), but because he was there when Isolde said that even the strongest of metals could become brittle and break. He worries not that she is not strong, but that she has reached that breaking point—that this is where it goes too far, that this is the moment Isolde so feared and so desired, the moment that she is pushed to her final limit, and with the final parts of Lexa dies _heda_.

He tells her to stay strong, and Lexa—with shaking hands, a hammering heart, the sword heavy, her entire world shifting yet again—nods almost unperceptively. He tells her to stay strong, and Lexa answers, “ _Yu gonplei ste odon._ ”

(He did for me, she thinks.)

(Then he dies for me, she realizes.)

She turns to look at Clarke when it is all over, wanting to show her that she does not care. Wanting to show her _heda’s_ strength, _heda’s_ power. But she fails. She knows she fails because Clarke’s eyes are full of understanding, her lips pressed in a thin line. She knows, hating that she does, that Clarke sees the truth (a truth that Lexa has run from since Glen, since Isolde, since Costia. A truth she only admits to herself now). Lexa and _heda_ are one and the same:

They both bleed, they both suffer, they both care.

* * *

She wishes she could freeze time.

Clarke is still except for the steady rise and fall of her chest, clearly fast asleep. They had walked for some time after escaping the _pauna_ , and when Lexa had noticed Clarke beginning to lag behind, she suggested they make camp for the night. She tries not to feel warm at the thought that Clarke trusted her enough to sleep, that Clarke trusted her enough to keep them safe. She tries not to feel at all, but it is not working.

She wants to freeze time.

This moment, as the sun begins to rise, with her eyes on the dying fire—acutely aware of Clarke’s presence, acutely aware of the sound of her soft breathing—all she can think about is Clarke’s refusal to leave her behind, Clarke’s quick and sure answers, Clarke’s gentle touch as she made a sling for Lexa’s arm. She wants to freeze this moment—this moment during which she has the luxury to think without being pressured by the needs of her people. This moment during which she can be completely herself, entirely vulnerable. (She tries not to think about how she feels a certain safety in Clarke’s presence, how she feels—for the first time in her life—a twinge of envy. Because Clarke is open and honest and there is safety to her while Lexa is closed and a liar and cold.)

She wants to freeze this moment.

There is peace in this frozen second, there is a sense of calm that she has not felt in some time (perhaps not since her mother died, perhaps even earlier, back when she was chosen at the age of six). A great deal of the comfort, the ease, she feels is thanks to Clarke, that much she is sure of. Because Clarke is smart, if a little quick to trust. Clarke is strong, if in different ways from Lexa (for she can recognize what she would never admit aloud: there is power in wearing your emotions freely, strength in letting yourself open). Clarke is the leader Lexa was before loss took its toll, before the pain became unbearable. Clarke is Lexa, and she realizes she would do anything in order to keep Clarke from meeting the same fate (because Lexa has died, again and again, and such is the burden of being a leader).

Lexa wants to freeze time, freeze this moment, because she bears the entirety of Clarke’s burden on her shoulders, protecting the girl in the only way she can. ( _Jomp em up an yu jomp ai up,_ she said, and she does not dwell on how telling such a statement is, how uncharacteristic it is, because if she dwells on it, she will admit something to herself that she is not ready to admit. Admit something that is true, but she cannot possibly allow herself to even consider.) Lexa wants to freeze time because in this moment, the strong Sky Girl is safe, and Lexa is selfish enough to admit that that is something she wants—something she needs.

Later, when Clarke wakes up with a start, when she asks about Lexa’s arm, as she tells Lexa to have faith in Bellamy (here she feels a twinge of envy, a sort she has not felt before), there is a different sort of shift in the world than she is used to—a shift that makes everything feel balanced, orderly, unmovable rather than chaotic, maddening, and harsh—and Lexa finds herself speaking: “I was wrong about you, Clarke. Your heart shows no sign of weakness.”

(This comment is telling, and though Lexa refuses to dwell on it, there is no use in denying it—Clarke of the Sky People has found a way into her hard, broken, bleeding heart.)

* * *

“You know, in order to heal, you need to actually rest your arm. You banged up your shoulder pretty badly.”

“This is a war, Clarke. There’s no time for rest.” She wipes sweat off her brow, turning to look at Clarke expectantly. “Well?” she prompts when Clarke merely stares blankly, watching as Ryder collected the weapons they were sparring with and walked off, leaving Lexa alone with the Sky Girl.

“Nothing yet.”

“Clarke—”

“Bellamy will come through. I’m sure of it.” She raises her head slightly, and Lexa recognizes the mannerism, knows what Clarke must feel, and so she merely nods, letting the topic go for now.

“Are you returning to your Camp?”

“Until we have news.”

“The meeting is tomorrow, Clarke. You are the leader of the Sky People, your presence will be required.” Clarke bites her lip, nodding, then reaches out hesitantly, using her eyes to indicate her intent. After a tense pause, Lexa nods gruffly, and she practically holds her breath as Clarke steps closer to her, as she inspects her shoulder and arm, checking for swelling, bruising, and inflammation (three things she has warned Lexa repeatedly to keep an eye out for, though Nyko had merely rolled his eyes, commenting on how the Sky Girl did not understand that a sprain was nothing to someone _kom Trigedakru_ ).

“How will you fight a war if you’re in pain?” Clarke asks, and Lexa thinks she had not meant to speak aloud, that the words came unbidden. Yet she responds anyway.

“You are on the ground now, Clarke, not among the stars. We all fight through the pain.”

(She finds herself sending Ryder with Clarke, she finds herself telling her warriors to obey Clarke, she finds herself breaking all of her own rules, letting Clarke get close, ever closer.)

* * *

Her first thought is to warn her people. ( _Peace, a life without war_. _That is what I want to build_.) Her first thought is to protect.

Her second thought is that should she warn them, all would be lost.

The Mountain Men—who had missiles that created craters you could not see across, who turned her warriors into Reapers _,_ who had slaughtered her people long before she was even born, who have posed a great threat for as long as anyone can remember—needed to be stopped. She knows this, has promised this, must do this. ( _Peace, a life without war_. That could not happen as long as the Mountain stood. That could not happen without Bellamy on the inside, without him remaining undetected until the Mountain’s weaknesses could be determined.) It is not about the lives of the people in Tondc, she knows. Because their loss will be for a greater purpose, their loss would ensure peace and prosperity for future generations—would ensure the release of hundreds of her people trapped and bled dry within the Mountain. ( _S_ _ometimes, to make the smart and strong choice, you must sacrifice what is good._ That is what Gustus told her so long ago. That is what she has been taught her entire life, the lesson drilled into her mind from the start: A few sacrificed for the many. Good sacrificed for what is the logical choice. Her bleeding heart bled dry like her people in the Mountain so that a child years from now would never know strife.)

_Peace, a life without war. That is what I want to build_. So why does that feel so much like a lie in this moment?

(She thinks it is because she is willing to sacrifice everyone in Tondc—Indra, the other Clan leaders’ generals and advisors, seconds, warriors, innocents—but she is not willing to sacrifice Clarke. She is not willing to let her burn as well. ( _Selfless_ she has been called, _selfless_. Yet protecting Clarke, being unwilling to leave this blue-eyed girl behind, is selfish, is dangerous, is costly. But she does not care.)

(This is telling, but Lexa has no time to dwell on it. Because she must ensure she hardens Clarke’s heart before it breaks—“Victory stands on the back of sacrifice,” she says, parroting Gustus’s words, his own way of preparing her, hardening her, knowing from experience that her attempts to harden Clarke will be as unsuccessful as Gustus’s attempts to harden her. _I want the Mountain Men dead. All of them_. Experience is the hardest of teachers, the most painful of instructors.)

Lexa watches as Clarke suffers as she suffers. Knows that Clarke feels the pain that she feels. But while Clarke sheds tears, while she is consumed with rage—at herself, at the Mountain, at Lexa—and desperation, Lexa falls back on old habits. She quells the feelings in her chest. She forces a look of indifference. She resorts to dry comments and she bears the pain without complaint because she has done this before, she will do this again.

Lexa watches, watches her village burn, watches Clarke snap, watches the chaos and unrest and harshness return with a blinding force. How does it feel, she wants to ask, how does it feel to witness your results of your hard decisions?

(She wants to ask, but she does not, because she knows that Clarke feels what she feels: a desperation to give the burden that lies on their shoulders to someone else—anyone else—yet knowing the burden is for her and her alone.)

* * *

Clarke rarely leaves her side.

She has no idea if it is something she asked for consciously or if Clarke could not bear to be alone—it is harder, she knows, to trudge on beneath that weight on your own—and merely gravitates towards Lexa because no one else understands, no one else could understand. She does not know why Clarke is always there, just to her right, working on plans, drawing more maps, studying their course of action obsessively. She does not know, and she does not care. (She wants Clarke as near to her as possible.)

It is because Clarke is always there, however, that Lexa learns that she refuses to eat until she is sure everyone has a meal first. It is because they walk around the camp together that Lexa learns that Clarke will stop and check on every warrior, no matter how mildly wounded, her own way of assuaging her guilt. It is because Clarke collapses from sheer exhaustion in Lexa’s tent the night after the missile that Lexa learns she has nightmares, that when she wakes, she turns away from Lexa—as if ashamed—and goes back to planning and obsessing. (Lexa also notices how Clarke taps her fingers when feeling impatient, how she touches the watch on her wrist often and unconsciously, how she rolls her eyes when annoyed, how her voice changes cadence when angry, upset, scared…pained.)

But then there is Clarke’s inability to admit to Lexa that she is a true leader, there is Clarke’s inability to hear how Lexa’s tone changes—how it becomes regretful, harsher, even melancholy despite her best efforts to remain apathetic—when she says, “You were born for this. Just like me.” There is Clarke’s obvious affection for Bellamy. There is Clarke’s obvious affection for Octavia.

There is Clarke’s stubbornness, her refusal to see Octavia as the threat she is.

“It’s because I’m close to her that I know she’s loyal,” Clarke says, a hardness to her tone that Lexa appreciates. Clarke does not fear her. Clarke is not intimidated. Clarke does not stand down or flee (she is not one of her subjects, to give into her commands, and she is not like Rox, running away because it has become too hard to stay). “Her brother is more important to her than anyone. She would never endanger his life.”

“And you’re willing to risk everything on that? On your feelings?” She quirks an eyebrow, she stares Clarke down with a superior look, but Clarke’s eyes make Lexa want to shiver. There is steadfast belief in them—challenge in them—and Lexa cannot quite remember what she is arguing against. (Your feelings will always be used against you, she wants to cry. Feelings lead to pain, she wants to scream. But there is no doubt in her mind that Clarke already knows.)

“Yes.” The single word reverberates in Lexa’s mind, cracking her resolve. “You say having feelings makes me weak, but you’re weak for hiding from them.” The words hit Lexa like a punch to the gut, momentarily making it difficult to breathe. “I might be a hypocrite, Lexa, but you’re a liar.” She swallows, raises her chin, tries to remain impassive, but Clarke’s words are like knives, slicing through her protections, slicing through all the walls. ( _You are a liar, that is good._ ) “You felt something for Gustus,” Clarke continues, taking a step forward. And Lexa can do nothing but retreat. “You’re still haunted by Costia.” Clarke advances, and Lexa continues to back away. “You want everyone to think you’re above it all, but I see right through you.” Lexa hits the table, and her hands go to the edge, gripping it, trying to wrest back control, trying to repair her shields.

“Get out,” she bit out, her jaw clenched, her eyes on Clarke’s blue (blue eyes that hold steadfast belief, hold absolute challenge, hold no fear).

“Two hundred fifty people died in that village,” Clarke says, unfazed by Lexa’s anger, Lexa’s clear struggle. “I know you felt for them,” she continues, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But you let them burn.” And Clarke finally breaks through the last of Lexa’s defenses, breaks through the last of her resolve, and something snaps—she breaks and admits the very thing she has not allowed herself to dwell on, the very thing that would have been obvious to Anya, or to Gustus, or to Isolde.

“Not everyone,” she says. “Not you.” For a moment, there is nothing but silence. Clarke’s eyes rove over her face, and Lexa can do nothing but stand before her, vulnerable, open, laying her heart bare. But then Clarke steps back, blue eyes determined once more.

“Well, if you care about me then…trust me. Octavia’s not a threat.” Another pause, this time on Lexa’s side, briefly mulling over this concept of ‘trust.’ (Because in her experience, nothing good came from trust. People had a way of letting you down, of never being worthy of the faith placed in them. Trust meant dependence, implied hope, and these are things Lexa has learned to live without.)

“I can’t do that,” she admits, swallowing. Something passes over Clarke’s face (something Lexa is sure has passed over her own face, when she threatened the Elders or the other Clan leaders).

“I can’t sacrifice my people anymore. If you do anything to hurt Octavia, I’ll tell everyone we knew about the missile.” Her eyes rove around Lexa’s face once more and then she turns and leaves. There is stillness in the tent and she tries to force back the tears that burn in her eyes, tries to get her feelings under control again. (But it is hard, because Clarke has ripped the scabs off her wounds and left her alone, bleeding and in pain, asking for trust when Lexa has spent her entire life avoiding it—or at least, attempting to avoid it.)

Feelings don’t make you weak, Clarke had said.

_I know_ , Lexa wants to tell her. _But hiding from them is so much safer, fraught with so much less pain._

(The thing she does not want to dwell on—the fact that she has trusted and cared for Clarke since their meeting, since meeting this girl who is her counterpart in every way—is on the forefront of her mind, and Lexa shelves her pride, roughly patches up the wounds caused by Clarke’s words, and makes a new resolution: With Clarke, with Clarke she would always be honest.)

* * *

She is warm and soft and when she kisses Lexa back, it is as if the stars and sun shine only for them, as if Lexa’s heart beats only for this Sky Girl, as if there is nothing else in this world—no people, no war, no force—except for Clarke, except for the way she presses forward, the way her hand comes up to rest on Lexa’s waist.

And even when she pulls away suddenly, even when she looks at Lexa with apologetic eyes, even as she says, “Not yet,” Lexa feels warm. Lexa feels warm, but more importantly, she feels something she has not felt since her plans for the Coalition were put into effect, since the Clans were united, since Darrin was born, since Costia was killed: hope. Hope for a future, hope for something better, hope for peace, protection, prosperity (hope for a future where Clarke’s dream came true—that it would not be a race for survival, a constant fight, but something more).

Clarke pulls away, and Lexa can still taste her on her lips, can still feel her warmth and softness, and she hopes.

* * *

There is a worried look on Clarke’s face as they march so Lexa offers her a small smile, a peace offering, a bit of comfort. Clarke is not used to war as she is, Lexa knows. There is nothing to do but allow experience be the horrifying teacher, nothing to do but be there in the aftermath, hold her as Costia once held Lexa.

“On the Ark,” Clarke says suddenly, breaking the silence, getting Lexa to turn to her again, “there was a boy who broke his arm.” Confused, Lexa merely nods, waiting for Clarke to continue. “He must’ve broken it doing something he wasn’t supposed to, because he didn’t come to my mom—she’s a doctor, a healer,” she adds unnecessarily. Lexa nods once again, surprised when Clarke breaks eye contact, choosing instead to stare ahead as she speaks. “The arm healed wrong because it wasn’t set. And he was in pain, but it was manageable. He thought he’d just deal with it. Endure it. I mean, there were ways he was able to cope on the Ark. People who could give him pain relievers. He could avoid using that arm. He managed.”

“But?”

“But we came to the ground,” she says, letting out a mirthless laugh. “And he was useless. Couldn’t help with anything because his arm healed wrong. So about a week after coming down, he asked me to break it again, reset it.” She looks up, her blue eyes meeting Lexa’s, something indecipherable in them. “This time, it healed correctly.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s just…it’s incredible isn’t it? We break, and on our own, we heal wrong. So we have to break again in order to let someone help us.” Lexa swallows, her turn to look away.

“Where is this boy now?”

“Oh,” Clarke says, as if surprised by the question. “He was killed by your warriors.”

* * *

She accepts the Mountain Man’s offer without hesitation because this is what she was born for, what she was raised for: to put her people first, to look out for their best interests, to protect them—sacrifice everything for them—so that they could live long, prosperous lives.

(She belongs to her people.)

(She is the rain after a drought.)

(For the first time, she realizes she will need a successor who can wash away _her_ sins.)

(She belongs to her people, yet she would do anything to belong to Clarke.)

(She belongs to her people.) 

* * *

She tells Clarke that she cares (she swore to herself that she would never lie to her again). She tells Clarke that the decision was made with her head and not her heart (she swore she would never lie, but it hurts, it hurts to admit that her heart screams, that it bleeds, that it sheds tears Lexa cannot allow from her eyes). She tells Clarke she has a duty to her people (she swore she would never lie, but she omits that had she been anyone else—had she been allowed to be selfish a second time—she would choose Clarke in a heartbeat).

She tells Clarke, “May we meet again,” pretending the tears in Clarke’s eyes will not haunt her, pretending the waver in Clarke’s voice does not cut through her, pretending, pretending, pretending as always.

She has not shed a tear since Isolde's death, but here now, beneath the heavy shadow cast by the Mountain, eyes trapped in Clarke's accusing gaze, she is unable to help the wetness that stains her cheek as she forcefully turns away. (She wears her warpaint in streaks to symbolize the tears heda sheds for her people. Here now, beneath the heavy weight of guilt and sorrow, the tears are no longer figurative.) She turns around and walks away, her hard heart turning to ice, frozen shards somehow managing to send frigid blood to every extremity. (She dies yet again, here now, beneath the dishonorable deed she has committed, and though she does not regret it, she knows—this is the moment, she knows, she is far to brittle to continue to bend—Lexa is lost forever. After all, Clarke had been the one to uncover her shriveled heart, who somehow tended to it, fed it—let it grow. Leaving Clarke to die meant abandoning that newly thriving heart. Leaving Clarke to die meant sending it back into the shadows, far from the light it needed to flourish.)

(Her people need a leader, and where Lexa is weak, _heda_ is strong. So Lexa must go.)

( _Hodnes laik kwelnes_ , she knows this. Believes this.)

(But here now, as she nearly buckles beneath guilt and sorrow and the icy stabs of pain in her chest, the mantra is no longer enough to protect her bleeding heart.)


	14. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you see?" Lexa asks, ignoring his comment, raising her head to meet his eyes. He looks scared—perhaps he too has heard stories of her ruthlessness, of how entire villages were sacrificed, of how she abandoned an ally to death. "Do you see how my Coalition crumbles beneath my sins?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE CHAPTER, PEOPLE.

**Six**

“We should eliminate them now, while they are weak!” Pel says, slamming a fist against the table. No one nods, but Lexa notices a look of contemplation pass over Gail’s features.

“No, if anything, their victory over the Mountain proves their strength. We should bring them into the Coalition, _heda_ , let them become one of us,” Tomas argues, staring only at Lexa.

“Would they even join us?” Trina asks, her voice cracking just slightly (Lexa has heard she was ill, that she has just begun to recover, and this is the proof). “We abandoned them, left them to die.” She also looks to Lexa, also asks for Lexa’s thoughts.

“Now, that is not true,” Vonne says, a smirk on her face, her eyes flitting between the Clan leaders. “Commander Lexa abandoned them.”

“We are one people, Vonne,” Ava snaps. “We all agreed: we fight, we die, we bleed together.”

“That is a pretty ideal, but the truth is that the Commander made the decision on her own—we were not involved.”

“She is our leader,” Luna says softly, interjecting for the first time, staring at the ceiling. “The day we signed our names in blood was the day we swore our fealty to her.”

“I do not recall such a swearing,” Vonne says, but she nods, in clear acceptance.

“The Sky People are a threat, Commander,” Pel tries again, this time in a softer, calmer tone. “What if they wish to retaliate?”

“I doubt they will,” Gavin offers, shrugging. “They only wish to live in peace. We should steer clear of them—let them keep the lands south of the river.”

“So they can take the Mountain Men’s place as our terrorizers?” Alford asks, his voice low, his shoulders drooping.

“They have no reason to bleed our people,” Ava says, nodding at Gavin, clearly agreeing with him. “They can survive this world.”

“And what of revenge?” Vonne asks, raising her eyebrows. “Have they no need for that either?”

“They are far too smart to risk war with twelve Clans,” Luna says, shaking her head. “Their numbers are small—they would know better.”

“We are assuming they think the same way as we do. The same way the Commander does. We cannot possibly know this for sure,” Clement says, leaning forward, his eyes focused on Lexa though he addresses Luna. “ _Heda_. You must offer your thoughts on this. You are the only one of us who spent time with the Sky People.”

“Yes, let us ask the one who landed us in trouble in the first place,” Vonne exclaims, throwing her hands up. “Tell us, Commander. Tell us of the Sky People!”

“You’re one to talk, Vonne!” Ava growls, getting to her feet. “War, war. All you advocate is war!”

“Because war is the answer. We must end them before they become a threat!”

“You are speaking of murder, and it is dishonorable,” Tomas interjects softly.

“As dishonorable as leaving allies to die?”

“You were not there,” Luna says, and her voice grows heated. “You speak of things you do not understand. Your people were not trapped in that Mountain. You claim you understand our suffering, but you do not, not safely tucked away to the north, far from the Mountain Men’s reach.”

“You are claiming that as long as we can justify our actions, it makes it right,” Vonne says, incredulous, and for the first time, actually sounding angry.

“I am stating a fact. Commander Lexa saved our people.”

“She left allies to die. How can you be sure she will not do the same to you or me?”

“We all know you, Vonne. We know you wish to stir trouble and strife. Your opinion is not needed or wanted,” Gail mutters, shaking her head. There is a murmur of agreement from the other Clan leaders.

“We turn to you, Commander,” Clement says, ignoring Vonne’s huff of dissent. “How do we deal with the Sky People?” Lexa—who had remained silent, who needed to remain silent—finds herself faced with eleven gazes, one of which is angry and hard, the others expectant. It makes her want to laugh because they all have placed such trust in a person who deserves none at all. (She turns her head slightly to the right, turns to smirk at Anya and Gustus who would understand why this is so funny, to share an amused glance with them, but she is met by an empty space. Her amusement fades all at once, her eyes burn, her heart pounds. She is nine again. She is twelve again. She is fifteen again. _They are gone_ , she is forced to remind herself forcefully, unsure of how she could have ever forgotten.)

“We leave them be.” Silence follows her words, her shaky words. “Marcus and Abby are soft leaders, looking for peace. They will not seek revenge, not when their people survived the Mountain.”

“And the girl? The one who roams our lands aimlessly, the one they say is broken and lost, the one the people call _wanheda_?” Luna asks, giving Lexa a look, a look that reads: _I know_. _I know what she is to you._

“Leave her be as well. The Sky People will not be touched.” There is a murmur, mumblings of ‘yes,’ a general acceptance. But Lexa sees Vonne’s angry eyes, sees Ava’s bloodthirsty gaze directed at the Ice Queen, sees Pel clench his fist, sees Trina, Clement, and Tomas bring their heads together, speaking in hushed tones. She sees this and she knows:

War is coming.

* * *

It starts without her noticing.

In between day-to-day matters, in between agonizing over reports of rumblings between the other Clans, in between waiting for another war to break out, she does it. She does it, unaware of her actions until Jon looks up, clearly no longer concentrating on their lesson.

"What do you write, _heda_?"

"What?"

"That," he says, pointing to the paper and the pencil (Clarke, Clarke, Clarke, who left the writing utensil in Lexa’s tent, obviously thinking that she would come back for it after their defeat of the Mountain, who had trusted Lexa, who had been betrayed by Lexa) with a frown.

"It's nothing, just my thoughts."

"Why do you write it down?" She thinks about tapping him against the head, she thinks about telling him to get on with his lesson. Instead, she answers him.

"So that it will no longer be here." She taps her temple, and the boy (though he is not a boy, not really, not anymore; he is nearly twelve, nearly to be made a second, nearly to discover war) nods in understanding.

"I heard the warriors say you bear a heavy weight, _heda_. Does writing help?"

"It does."

" _Heda_." He stops, looks down at the book he was fumbling through (Lexa remembers how she struggled, remembers how Isolde was kind and patient, and she resolves to do the same with Jon), and lets out a deep sigh. " _Heda_ , I can help."

"Really?" she asks, amused. "How?"

"I will carry it for you." The amusement fades in a flash, and she shakes her head. But Jon does not look up, and so he continues. "I am strong, _heda_. I can help."

"No, Jon," she says softly, and he finally looks up, tears in his eyes.

"There are rumors, _heda_. People say you abandoned allies, that you let Tondc burn. That you are as ruthless as the Ice Queen."

"Yes."

"They say that war with the Ice Nation is certain."

"Yes."

"They say," he continues, practically sobbing at this point, "they say you no longer carry the Spirit."

"They are wrong." He looks worried still, and Lexa places a comforting hand on his head, gently rubs the crease between his brows away with her thumb (Gustus, Gustus, Gustus, who used to do the same for her, who used to be her support, her anchor, her friend). "The Spirit is mine until the day I die, child. Until the next _heda_ takes my place. That is the weight I carry. Do you understand?"

"So I cannot help you."

"No."

"So you write."

"Yes, child. I write."

(She writes and writes, filling page after page with her precise scrawl, writing about Isolde, Anya, Gustus, Costia, Clarke. She writes what she can never admit out loud, she writes what she cannot bear to carry any longer—her grief, her pain, her love. She writes because she is full to the brim and she needs to shrug off the excess.)

(She writes because she is broken, and this is how she repairs her tattered and bleeding heart.)

* * *

“It is the missile, Lexa,” Luna says as they walk. “People understand leaving allies to their deaths because the Sky People are not like us. They cannot understand letting your own people die.”

“I had no choice. It was that or give up our only advantage.”

“I know that. I am merely saying it will take time. This happened so soon after the Coalition was formed. People need a chance to see peace before doubt and suspicion is erased from their minds.” Her people bow to her, many reach out to her, thank her, but there are also those who seem wary—who stare as if wondering if they will be the next ones to die at her hands.

“I am my people’s newest plight, Luna,” she says, looking away from her people, swallowing hard ( _Two hundred fifty people burned, burned because of her_.)

“You are still Isolde’s rain, Lexa,” Luna assures her, placing a hand on Lexa’s shoulder. “Of this, I have no doubt.”

* * *

“You cannot go to war without my say, Ava,” Lexa says tiredly, rubbing her eyes. The woman grimaces, but holds her ground.

“The Ice Nation planned to attack the Sky People, Commander. This war is long overdue.”

“Pel and Gail have both sided with Vonne. Others may too. We are starting a conflict that will end with too much bloodshed.”

“Then bring the Sky People into the Coalition. Force Vonne to stand down.”

“Reports say that the Sky People are fractured. Their leadership is lacking.”

“The girl, the girl who wanders. _Wanheda_. She can unite them, lead them.” Ava pauses. “Find her, Commander. Bring her to Polis to speak on behalf of her people. Bring them into the Coalition.”

“This won’t stop Vonne, you know that. Her desire for war has nothing to do with the Sky People.” Ava nods, her eyes burning with unconcealed rage.

“Yes, so when we burn her palace to the ground, she will have no one to blame but herself.”

* * *

She spends time with the orphans because she feels useless, feels like an empty shell, feels like a mask without a face. She spends time with the orphans because they live with her—they are the Commander’s honor, they are her legacy—and when they stare at her it is with adoration and not reproach. It is with love and not hatred.

She lets them crawl into her lap, lets them hang on her neck, lets them pretend they are warriors (desperately wishing this is not something they want, something they aspire for, for being a warrior means death, and she is so tired of death), lets them pretend she is a thing to be saved (when in reality she is a thing to be vanquished). She reads them books, tells them stories, lets them run around in Isolde’s garden, play with the flowers, create little crowns that they place on her head. She lets them laugh, chatter, play, _live_ , because these are things Lexa cannot remember doing, and she needs to give it to these orphans, these children who are her honor, her legacy, her saviors.

(She spends her time with the orphans because she is the reason their parents are gone, she is the reason they suffer, she is the reason they were forced to leave their homes.)

(She spends her time with the orphans because something in her has irrevocably broken, and these children’s presence is like a salve, and it soothes her soul.)

She is with them the day he returns, with them when he walks into the garden as if nothing had happened, as if a year had not gone by. She is with the children, and she can do nothing but stare at him in shock.

“You look busy,” he says, a certain sadness in his eyes as he stares at the children (one of the girls is only two, the age Darrin would be now, and Lexa’s heart stutters at the very thought).

“What are you doing here?” she asks, getting to her feet, nodding her head so that the aides would come watch the children, and she leads Rox towards the library.

“I am here to help.”

“You said you couldn’t watch.”

“Lexa,” Rox says, coming to a halt, staring at her with wide eyes (eyes that are an exact replica of her own, eyes that they inherited from their mother, the only thing they inherited from their mother, for neither of them are strong or selfless or kind). “I am here to help.”

"You left," she states, head bowed, shoulders drooping, fatigue burrowing deep into her bones. "You left me."

"I did," he says, not stepping forward, not moving at all. "But I am back. I am here now."

"Do you see?" Lexa asks, ignoring his comment, raising her head to meet his eyes. He looks scared—perhaps he too has heard stories of her ruthlessness, of how entire villages were sacrificed, of how she abandoned an ally to death. "Do you see how my Coalition crumbles beneath my sins?" His eyes widen further, and he opens his mouth—to argue, to agree, to convince her otherwise, she does not know or care—but Lexa plows on, needing to speak, needing to push the weight off her chest, needing to breathe again. "Fractured and broken, my people return their focus on past disputes, sacrificing peace for war because that is all they know. I never brought change, Rox. I deluded myself, and now, now I have given the Ice Queen the very sword she will use to end me."

"Your people understand you. The Ice Queen will not convince many to break the alliance."

"The Massa People have already declared war on the Ice Nation for ‘threatening the Coalition.’ As have the Desert and Valley clans. Peace would never have lasted. Vonne was right." Rox stares at her for a moment, and then, so quickly that she has no time to avoid it, he steps forward and pulls her into an embrace. His arms wrap around her, his chin resting on top of her head, the sound of his steady heartbeat in her ear. He tightens his grip, and Lexa's arms remain hanging listlessly at her sides.

"Lexa. You are not alone."

"My people hate me. News of the missile has spread. Jon says there are whisperings of the Spirit having left me." By the end of her sentence, she thinks her voice breaks, she thinks she is breaking, because it is only Rox's arms that keep her on her feet, only his support that keeps her standing. (Once she had Anya. Once she had Costia. Once she had Gustus. Once she had Isolde. But she is alone now, so alone, so vacant, so broken. She is not _heda_. She is not even Lexa.)

"Your people know who you are. A peacemaker. So bring peace." He says it as if it is simple, as if there is an easy fix, as if she merely needs to wish it and it will become true.

"I can't," she admits to him, informing him of the truth that so haunts her. Her eyes burn and she turns her head so that her face is buried in Rox's shirt. "I can't."

"You can. Because you are not alone, little sister. I will not leave you again. I promise." He cannot make such a promise. He knows as well as she does a warrior never makes such a promise. But in that moment, Lexa does not care. Unbidden, her arms come up and she wraps them around her brother, needing his comfort, needing his strength (because for the first time, hers is failing her). "You are not alone," he repeats, and Lexa allows herself to fall apart, break down, fall from grace, trusting her brother to catch her, put the pieces back together.

(She allows herself to be weak, because she tried strength, and it did not last.)

* * *

She thinks it is a dream.

(She has had dreams involving her before, often even. Dreams that scouts come back telling her none of the Sky People survived, and Lexa waits until she is alone before throwing the shoulder guard across the room, smashing her belongings, wishing, wishing, wishing she were dead too. Dreams that she dies and comes back to haunt Lexa, following her around, blaming her, hating her, punishing her. She dreams that she lives, but decides she wants revenge—revenge Lexa would offer her willingly, “Take me, take me, please,” she would cry, fatigued and broken, empty and anguished. She dreams of her blue eyes, her determined features, her strength and her heart. She dreams of how she abandoned her at the Mountain, how the ache in her chest intensified, how she realized there was a knife in her heart, and Clarke was standing over her, hands bloodstained, cheeks tearstained.)

She thinks it is a dream because there is no possible way that Clarke stands behind Rox now, no possible way that the small, malnourished, beaten girl she sees is the one who once shouldered so much. She thinks it is a dream, because Clarke collapses, because Rox must hold her up, because when Lexa rushes forward, Clarke mutters, “I found you.”  

She thinks it is a dream because Clarke is here in Polis. Clarke is here.

* * *

At some point, she must have nodded off. Clarke slept soundly in her bed, and Lexa sat in the chair once occupied by Anya when she had nightmares after Glen, once occupied by Isolde, when she refused to celebrate the _Trikru_ victory over the Boat Clan. She had been reading, the book propped open on her lap, Clarke’s pencil in Lexa’s hand, stray pieces of paper littering the floor and her desk behind her. She must have nodded off because when she wakes, it is to a knife at her throat.

“One good reason,” Clarke hisses. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you right now.” Lexa swallows, mesmerized by Clarke’s blue eyes, mesmerized by the fury, the pain, and the words come out of her mouth before she has a chance to think them through.

“I can’t.”

“You—what?” Clarke falters, loosening her grip on the knife, the anger giving way to confusion and something else (something that looks suspiciously like sympathy).

“I can’t,” Lexa repeats. “Blood must have blood, Clarke.”

“Stop,” Clarke says, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “No. You don’t get to do this. Not now.”

“I left you, betrayed you. I forced you to kill the boy you loved. You’ve wanted to plunge a knife through my heart since, so do it.”

“No. No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to turn it around on me, you don’t get to sit there and pretend you’re giving me this.”

“It isn’t pretend. Your people have suffered and bled because of me. _Jus drein jus daun_. How much of my blood will satisfy you?”

“I said stop it! You can’t give me this now when you’ve forced everything else on me.” Her eyes open again, the fury returning with a force, and Lexa sees herself. Lexa sees someone haunted by their actions, grieving all the loss, and she is only further resolved. “You forced my hand, Lexa. You forced me to kill every last person in Mount Weather. So do it again. Force my hand. Attack me!”

“No.”

“Attack me!”

“If this will make you feel better, Clarke, I want you to take it. I want you to plunge your knife into my heart.” Clarke’s lips twist and the knife moves from Lexa’s throat to her chest, the point pressing through her clothes and just into her skin. For a moment, neither one of them move or speak, their eyes only on each other, green boring into blue. “Do it, Clarke,” Lexa whispers, moving her hand so that it is resting on top of Clarke’s pressing the knife harder against her skin. She feels the prick, feels it and ignores it, wanting to draw blood. For a second, Lexa is sure it is over, that Clarke will apply the last of the force, but then shock and confusion and sorrow flit over her face and she shakes her head.

“I’m not like you,” Clarke says suddenly, roughly pulling the knife away, taking several steps back. “I’m no savage.” It is a barb, but it does not have the effect she intends.

“I know,” Lexa says softly, bending over to pick up the pencil that dropped on the floor and handing it over to Clarke. “I would have killed me.”

* * *

“How long had she been in Polis?” she asks, pushing her food around her plate. Spring has come in full force, the garden overflowing with flowers, food becoming more and more plentiful. It is beautiful, and that makes the ever-looming war all the more terrible. Rox leans back in his chair, eyeing her curiously.

“Wren and I found her wandering the forests about a week ago. We brought her to Polis then, but I refused to let her see you until I was sure you would be safe.”

“And how did you do that?”

“I showed her how your people love you.”

“Even now?”

“Especially now.” He leans forward, a crease appearing between his brows. “The threat of the Mountain is gone, and it was less costly than when you built the Coalition.” He pauses, clearing his throat, then plunges on, as if he knows this is not something she will want to hear and wants to finish it quickly. “Your people fear you have become too hard. They shed tears for you.”

“It may be best if they saved those tears for themselves.” Rox does not answer right away. He stares at his hands for a moment, then lets out a deep breath.

“You may belong to your people, _heda_ ,” he says softly, gently, kindly. “But it works both ways. Just as much as you are theirs, they are yours.” 

* * *

“My coming here doesn’t mean I want to talk,” she says without prompting as she enters the library, sitting in the seat next to Jon.

“Never would have assumed so,” Lexa says, causing Jon to snort but Clarke’s eyes to narrow. “Jon and I are in the middle of a lesson.”

“Lesson?”

“ _Heda_ is teaching me how to read and write,” Jon says, holding his head up high. “I will be the only aide who is literate.” He turns to Lexa questioningly, as if unsure he has used the right word, a grin forming on his face when she nods.

“The only one?” Jon nods.

“The Elders and the Commander before _heda_ believed such things were a waste of time. _Heda_ says it is no longer true.” He leans towards Clarke, grinning from ear to ear. “ _Heda_ lets musicians play in the streets, lets artists paint murals on the streets. There is even a man who teaches children about the stars.”

“It wasn’t allowed before?”

“Before _heda_ ,” Jon says, his eyes narrowing as if he cannot believe there is anyone in the world who is not completely aware of Lexa’s accomplishments, “people were killed for doing such things.” Clarke opens her mouth, but Lexa immediately shakes her head.

“Don’t you have errands to run, child?”

“Yes, _heda_.” Jon gets to his feet, gathers his books, and sprints out of the room. A second later he returns, bows low, and then walks back out at an exaggeratedly slow pace.

“He’s excitable,” Clarke comments, staring at the spot Jon vacated.

“He will be a good warrior. A strong fighter.”

“Is that how you see him? Another sword in your war?” Lexa blinks and immediately, all the guards that go down when she is with Jon are raised, realizing what a precarious situation she is in.

“I don’t want war, Clarke.”

“The Ice Queen says differently.” At Lexa’s look, Clarke shrugs. “I met her, on the way to Polis. She told me what I already knew. That you were ruthless, that you abandon those you no longer have a use for. That your talks of peace are all nonsense.” Lexa closes her book and stands, staring down at Clarke with an impassive expression.

“I have no love for Vonne. If I had it my way, she would be dead.”

“She’s the one who killed Costia?”

“She is the one who invaded my lands. The one who ravaged and burned my villages. The one who killed Costia in a last effort to make me lose control. Vonne loves war, thrives on it, but more than that, she loves to watch me suffer.”

“Why? What did you do to her?”

“I saved her life.”

* * *

It starts slowly. Rather than eat on her own, Clarke sits with Lexa in silence. Rather than spend all her time in her room, she shadows Lexa’s every move—attends every meeting, listens to every word, watches, studies, learns.

Then, she begins speaking at meals, asking questions (not only about _Trikru_ culture, but questions about Lexa’s past). Then, she talks to Rox, spends less time shadowing Lexa and more time exploring Polis with Rox and Wren. Then, she attends the war meetings, and though she never speaks of her people, she offers advice, help, opinions. Then, rather than listen to Lexa teach Jon all on her own, Clarke supplements the lessons with her own knowledge.

Then, as the weeks pass, as everything finally reaches a tipping point, as Vonne breaks free from the Coalition along with the Pel and Gail, as war breaks out to the north, as Lexa’s people begin to brace themselves for more loss, Clarke changes even further. She takes Lexa’s hand, rubs her palm with a thumb. She makes sure Lexa has eaten. She takes care of the orphans, taking Lexa’s place as storyteller, as playmate.

And then one night, she slips into bed with Lexa.

“Nightmares,” she whispers, and Lexa nods in understanding, shifts so that Clarke has more room.

(But Clarke is not the only one who changes. Lexa too, feels things shift. She tells Clarke of her worries and fears. She tells Clarke her secrets, tells her of Costia and Isolde and Anya and Gustus. Shares stories of her childhood, shares stories of how that childhood ended too soon. She tells Clarke of the weight they carry, how she fumbles beneath it, how the burden never lessens, never gives her a moment’s rest. She tells Clarke things she could never tell Costia, for fear that people would see her as something to hurt, for fear that she would be used against her. She tells Clarke because she is _wanheda_ , more feared than Vonne, than Gail, even than Lexa. No one dares go near Clarke for she is the slayer of Mountains, and the ruthless Commander has ordered her not to be touched.)

(Lexa keeps Clarke close, keeps her as close as Clarke wishes to be, because she tried pushing those she loved away to protect them, and all of them ended up dead.)

And many weeks into the war, under the hot summer sun—when Clarke hears Lexa’s forceful demand (a demand she has made again and again to the remaining eight Clans who side with her) that the _Skaikru_ are to be left out of this war, this fight—she gives Lexa a small smile and says, “I think it’s yet, Lexa.”

(And Lexa’s broken, shattered, crumbling heart seems to heal. Pieces fall back into place haphazardly, messily, but they make a solid whole, and it is the most Lexa could have hoped for. She heals, feels the weight of her burden—of their burden—not grow lighter, but grow manageable. She was broken, and she heals under Clarke’s guidance.)

* * *

A sword at Vonne’s throat as she kneels before Lexa is a sight that brings a wave of pain. She remembers standing here, remembers the fury that clouded everything, remembers how much she wished to kill this woman she so hated. (She remembers Costia, Costia who was good, who was kind, who was smart, who was the first to see Lexa as Lexa and not _heda_ , a thing only one other has managed.)

“I spared your life the first time, for I was young and weak and I didn’t want to see anyone die,” Lexa says slowly, stepping forward. “I let you live the second time, for I wanted vengeance but my people needed peace.” She leans down, looking into Vonne’s cold eyes, not blinking. “You should have read the charter, Vonne,” Lexa says sadly, standing straight, standing tall. “It is there, clearly written, that all those who threaten the Coalition will face severe punishment.”

“So you will kill me now?” She sounds gleeful, glad, and Lexa’s heart races as she shakes her head.

“No. I have no intention of killing you.” She turns and makes to leave, but Vonne calls out when she is a few strides away.

“I’ll kill her, like I killed the other one. I’ll make her scream.”

“Clarke is perfectly capable of protecting herself,” Lexa says, only looking at Vonne briefly before continuing on her way. “Besides, where you’re going, you won’t be doing much for a very long time.”

“You will _always_ be at war, Commander,” Vonne shouts. “There is no rest for you, there is no respite. Even if I am gone, there are more threats. You know what I speak of, you know peace never lasts.” Lexa turns, watches as Vonne tries to get to her feet, tries to get closer. “We live in a world far more broken than our spirits. You are deluding yourself if you think there is any hope.” Lexa stares her down, not blinking, and she nods.

“Even if there is no hope, I wish to remain deceived.”

 


	15. Epilogue (Year Ten)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is time for you yet, child. Do not be in a hurry to grow up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading the comments from the last few chapters, and it occurred to me that this ending will be unsatisfactory for those of you who expected something…more. At first, I wanted to explain why I went this route, but stories belong to their readers, the author’s intent is a moot point, and it is what it is. So I’m just going to end with this: Thanks for reading guys. It’s been a blast. (And if you want to yell at me, or whatever else, tumblr is probably the easiest way: @theahhamoment.)

**Epilogue (Year Ten)**

The girl is seven years old when Lexa finds her. 

She is small for her age, quiet, and Lexa is drawn to her in ways she does not understand. It is similar to the way she felt drawn to Isolde, though it is also tinged with a bitterness she never felt with her predecessor. (She thinks she now understands how Isolde felt about her—a mixture of affection, of hope, of care, all alongside a desperate desire, a wish that she had never set eyes on Lexa. To be _heda_ is to die. To be chosenis to be condemned. But the Spirit calls, and Lexa knows she has no choice.)

Her name is Grace. Her eyes are a startling grey, her hair light, her movements sure. Her parents died a mere year after her birth, fighting to create Lexa’s Coalition. She is kind, trusting, disobedient, with a penchant for sarcasm that rivals Lexa’s. (She is smart, witty, likes to run and play, hates her sword, avoids the garden, and has a habit of staring at her boots when she lies. Lexa likes her, Lexa cares for her, Lexa wishes she never met her.)

Clarke, who could not understand how Lexa was so sure about the girl, who hated the idea of raising her only to become _heda_ the day after Lexa’s death, who found _Trikru_ beliefs and culture so vastly different from her own, is the one who suggested Rox mentor the child, the one who suggested that Lexa take a role different from Isolde’s—support, not a teacher; care, not a lesson. (Lexa agrees, but when she and Grace leave Polis for a hunt, she tells the girl of Isolde, how she was named after a rebellious princess who sacrificed everything for the one she loved. How she herself was named after a great warrior, a strategist. How Grace would succeed where Isolde’s totalitarian ways and Lexa’s hardness could not: how she would find a way to make peace stay.)

(Grace tells this to Clarke one day, and Clarke—who still has trouble trusting Lexa, who still sometimes falters, sometimes questions whether or not Lexa does something for the good of her people or for the good of all—rolls her eyes, clearly deciding that, in this matter, her opinion has no value.)

And so, after lessons with Rox—learning about how the Coalition was formed, how the Mountain was defeated, how war was fought yet again until the Ice Queen’s imprisonment, how the _Skaikru_ were brought into the Coalition, how more and more things changed enough to give people freedom of choice, of opportunity—Grace would run to the library, sit among other children, all of them taught to read by a gangly fifteen year old Jon. (Jon, who chose not to be a warrior, who chose to work with Raven and Sinclair of the Sky People, who wanted to be what he called a ‘man of science,’ who still bowed low when he saw Lexa.)

And at nights, Grace would eat her dinner with Lexa (sometimes joined by Clarke), and they would talk, much like Lexa used to do with Isolde, with Anya, with Gustus. It is this hour or so with Grace that Lexa enjoys the most—enjoys more than meetings with Clan leaders, enjoys more than settling disputes that continue to crop up again and again, enjoys more than tolerating the distrust that still remains in many people’s eyes. For an hour, they merely speak, about books, about war, about love, about anything and everything, and Lexa understands Isolde. Understands how a child can give so much hope, can make it seem like everything will be all right. ( _It is all right not to be all right_ , Costia said again and again, and now, all this time later, Lexa finds the truth of that statement.)

Grace is merely seven, and though Clarke does not know it, Lexa finds herself taking some of her advice. Because Grace is Lexa’s, and though she knows—believes with all her heart—that Grace will be a _heda_ remembered for generations to come, she never weighs the girl down with such knowledge, with such expectations. Lexa never tells her that she is the flower that blossoms after a storm, she never tells her that she is the spring breeze, clearing the air after a frigid winter. Lexa never tells her that she is the life that blooms, the legacy that Lexa chooses to leave. Because the girl is merely seven, because she has not been wracked by tears after a loss, because she still has an unblemished, undamaged heart.

Grace may be the next _heda_ , but Lexa resolves to ensure that she carries with her the ideals of a new age, ideals Lexa could never have. ( _Harden your heart, child. You will be great,_ Isolde said, but there is more than one type of greatness.)

(This is what Clarke has taught her. Clarke, who is a healer, who advocates diplomacy and talks, who is the only one who knows that Lexa is just as broken as anyone else, the only one who sees and understands that Lexa and _heda_ are separate out of necessity, the only one who chooses to love and accept both parts. Of course, this is not to say they are perfect. For Clarke’s slowly mending trust of Lexa causes issues often, and Lexa is still unused and uncomfortable and afraid of the idea that everyone is aware of what they mean to each other. Her friends, Bellamy and Raven and Octavia, tell Lexa that Clarke is softer now. That she is healing now. Lexa wishes to say the feelings are mutual. Instead, she tells Clarke.)

Grace is seven years old when Lexa finds her, the day Lexa falls to her knees, takes hold of the child’s shoulders, and says—with a small, sad, knowing smile on her face, quelling the regret that builds in her chest—in a calm, collected voice, “There is time for you yet, child. Do not be in a hurry to grow up.”


End file.
